THE 

MAN  OF 

.OPERTY 


OHN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

BEQUEST  OF 

Alice  R.  Hilgard 


1 1  \  o 


BY  JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

Fraternity 

Villa  Rtibein 

The  Country  House 

The  Island  Pharisees 

The  Man  of  Property 

A  Commentary 

Plays: 
The  Silver  Box  j  Joy;  Strife 


The 


Man  of  Property 


By 

John  Galsworthy 

Author  of 
"  The  Island  Pharisees,"  "  The  Country  House. 


.  .  .  You  will  answer 
"  The  slaves  are  ours  ..." 

Merchant  of  Venice 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New   York   and    London 
Ube  "fcnicfeerbocftet  press 


COPYRIGHT,  igo6 


WILLIAM  HEINEMANN 

Published,  October,  1906 

Reprinted,  December,  1908  ;  January,  1910 

May,  1910 


RtlP.  GEN.  LIB. 
ACCESS.  NO. 


tor 


ttbe  fmfcfterbocftet  press,  flew  got* 


TO 

EDWARD  GARNETT 


M865528 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAG« 

I. — "AT  HOME"  AT  OLD  JOLYON'S       .         .  i 

II. — OLD  JOLYON  GOES  TO  THE  OPERA  .         .  24 

III. — DINNER  AT  SWITHIN'S  43 

IV. — PROJECTION  OP  THE  HOUSE  61 

V. — A  FORSYTE  MENAGE   .         .                   •  73 

VI. — JAMES  AT  LARGE          ....  82 

VII. — OLDJOLYON'S  PECCADILLO  ...  94 

VIII. — PLANS  OP  THE  HOUSE  ....  104 

IX. — DEATH  OF  AUNT  ANN  ....  115 

X. — PROGRESS  OP  THE  HOUSE      .         .         .  127 

XI. — JUNE'S  TREAT 137 

XII. — DRIVE  WITH  SWITHIN  ....  146 

XIII. — JAMES  GOES  TO  SEE  FOR  HIMSELF  .         .  160 

XIV. — SOAMES  AND  BOSINNEY  CORRESPOND      .  173 

XV. — OLD  JOLYON  AT  THE  Zoo       .         .         .  192 

XVI. — AFTERNOON  AT  TIMOTHY'S    .         .         .  200 

XVII. — DANCE  AT  ROGER'S      ....  216 

XVIII. — EVENING  AT  RICHMOND        .         .         .  227 


vi  Contents 

CKAPTBK 

XIX. — DIAGNOSIS  OP  A  FORSYTE     .  .  .  241 

XX. — BOSINNEY  ON  PAROLE          .  .  .252 

XXI. — JUNE  PAYS  SOME  CALLS        .  .  .  258 

XXII. — PERFECTION  OF  THE  HOUSE  .  .  .  269 

XXIII. SOAMES  SlTS  ON  THE  STAIRS  .  .  279 

XXIV. — MRS.  MACANDER'S  EVIDENCE  .  .  285 

XXV. — NIGHT  IN  THE  PARK     ....  299 

XXVI. — MEETING  AT  THE  BOTANICAL  .  .  305 

XXVII. — VOYAGE  INTO  THE  INFERNO  .  .  322 

XXVIII— THE  TRIAL         .         .         .  .  .  335 

XXIX. — SOAMES  BREAKS  THE  NEWS  .  .  .  346 

XXX. — JUNE'S  VICTORY 359 

XXXI. — BOSINNEY'S  DEPARTURE      .  .  .  369 

XXXII. — IRENE'S  RETURN         .        .  .  .381 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 

CHAPTER  I 
"AT  HOME"  AT  OLD  JOLYON'S 

THOSE  privileged  to  be  present  at  a  family  festival 
of  the  Forsytes  have  seen  that  charming  and 
instructive  sight — an  upper  middle-class  family  in  full 
plumage.  But  whosoever  of  these  favoured  persons  has 
possessed  the  gift  of  psychological  analysis  (a  talent 
without  monetary  value  and  properly  ignored  by  the 
Forsytes)  has  witnessed  a  spectacle,  not  only  delightful 
in  itself,  but  illustrative  of  an  obscure  human  problem. 
In  plainer  words,  he  has  gleaned  from  a  gathering  of  this 
family — no  branch  of  which  had  a  liking  for  the  other, 
between  no  three  members  of  whom  existed  anything 
worthy  of  the  name  of  sympathy — evidence  of  that 
mysterious  concrete  tenacity  which  renders  a  family  so 
formidable  a  unit  of  society,  so  clear  a  reproduction  of 
society  in  miniature.  He  has  been  admitted  to  a  vision 
of  the  dim  roads  of  social  progress,  has  understood  some- 
thing of  patriarchal  life,  of  the  swarmings  of  savage 
hordes,  of  the  rise  and  fall  of  nations.  He  is  like  one 
who,  having  watched  a  tree  grow  from  its  planting — a 
paragon  of  tenacity,  insulation,  and  success,  amidst  the 
deaths  of  a  hundred  other  plants  less  fibrous,  sappy,  and 
persistent — one  day  will  see  it  flourishing  with  bland, 


4  The  Man  of  Property 

look  on  his  fleshy  face,  pondering  one  of  his  sardonic 
jests.  Something  inherent  to  the  occasion  had  affected 
them  all. 

Seated  in  a  row  close  to  one  another  were  three  ladies: 
Aunts  Ann,  Hester  (the  two  Forsyte  maids),  and  Juley 
(short  for  Julia) ,  who  not  in  first  youth  had  so  far  for- 
gotten herself  as  to  marry  Septimus  Small,  a  man  of 
poor  constitution.  She  had  survived  him  for  many 
years.  With  her  elder  and  younger  sister  she  lived 
now  in  the  house  of  Timothy,  her  sixth  and  youngest 
brother,  on  the  Bayswater  Road.  Each  of  these  ladies 
held  fans  in  their  hands,  and  each  with  some  touch  of 
colour,  some  emphatic  feather  or  brooch,  testified  to 
the  solemnity  of  the  opportunity. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room,  under  the  chandelier,  as 
became  a  host,  stood  the  head  of  the  family,  old  Jolyon 
himself.  Eighty  years  of  age,  with  his  fine,  white  hair, 
his  dome-like  forehead,  his  little,  dark  grey  eyes,  and 
an  immense  white  moustache,  which  drooped  and  spread 
below  the  level  of  his  strong  jaw,  he  had  a  patriarchal 
look,  and  in  spite  of  lean  cheeks  and  hollows  at  his 
temples,  seemed  master  of  perennial  youth.  He  held 
himself  extremely  upright,  and  his  shrewd,  steady  eyes 
had  lost  none  of  their  clear  shining.  Thus  he  gave  an 
impression  of  superiority  to  the  doubts  and  dislikes  of 
smaller  men.  Having  had  his  own  way  for  innumerable 
years,  he  had  earned  a  prescriptive  right  to  it.  It  would 
never  have  occurred  to  old  Jolyon  that  it  was  necessary 
to  wear  a  look  of  doubt  or  of  defiance. 

Between  him  and  the  four  other  brothers  who  were 
present,  James,  S within,  Nicholas,  and  Roger,  there  was 
much  difference,  much  similarity.  In  turn,  each  of  these 
four  brothers  was  very  different  from  the  other,  yet  they, 
too,  were  alike. 

Through  the  varying  features  and  expression  of  those 


"  At  Home  "  at  Old  Jolyon's  5 

five  faces  could  be  marked  a  certain  steadfastness  of 
chin,  underlying  surface  distinctions,  marking  a  racial 
stamp,  too  prehistoric  to  trace,  too  remote  and  per- 
manent to  discuss — the  very  hall-mark  and  guarantee 
of  the  family  fortunes.  Among  the  younger  generation, 
in  the  tall,  bull-like  George,  in  pallid,  strenuous  Archi- 
bald, in  young  Nicholas  with  his  sweet  and  tentative 
obstinacy,  in  the  grave  and  foppishly  determined  Eustace, 
there  was  this  same  stamp — less  meaningful  perhaps,  but 
unmistakable — a  sign  of  something  ineradicable  in  the 
family  soul. 

At  one  time  or  another  during  the  afternoon,  all  these 
faces,  so  dissimilar  and  so  alike,  had  worn  an  expression 
of  distrust,  the  object  of  which  was  undoubtedly  the 
man  whose  acquaintance  they  were  thus  assembled  to 
make. 

Philip  Bosinney  was  known  to  be  a  young  man  without 
fortune,  but  Forsyte  girls  had  become  engaged  to  such 
before,  and  had  actually  married  them.  It  was  not 
altogether  for  this  reason,  therefore,  that  the  minds  of 
the  Forsytes  misgave  them.  They  could  not  have  ex- 
plained the  origin  of  a  misgiving  obscured  by  the  mist 
of  family  gossip.  A  story  was  undoubtedly  told  that 
he  had  paid  his  duty  call  to  Aunts  Ann,  Juley,  and 
Hester,  in  a  soft  grey  hat — a  soft  grey  hat,  not  even  a 
new  one — a  dusty  thing  with  a  shapeless  crown.  "So 
extraordinary,  my  dear — so  odd!"  Aunt  Hester,  pass- 
ing through  the  little  dark  hall  (she  was  rather  short- 
sighted), had  tried  to  "shoo"  it  off  a  chair,  taking  it 
for  a  strange,  disreputable  cat — Tommy  had  such  dis- 
graceful friends!  She  was  disturbed  when  it  did  not 
move. 

Like  an  artist  for  ever  seeking  to  discover  the  signifi- 
cant trifle  which  embodies  the  whole  character  of  a 
scene,  or  place,  or  person,  so  those  unconscious  artists — 


6  The  Man  of  Property 

the  Forsytes — had  fastened  by  intuition  on  his  hat, 
it  was  their  significant  trifle,  the  detail  in  which  was  em- 
bedded the  meaning  of  the  whole  matter ;  for  each  had 
asked  himself:  "Come,  now,  should  /  have  paid  that 
visit  in  that  hat?"  and  each  had  answered  "No!"  and 
some,  with  more  imagination  than  others,  had  added: 
"It  would  never  have  come  into  my  head! " 

George,  on  hearing  the  story,  grinned.  The  hat  had 
obviously  been  worn  as  a  practical  joke!  He  himself  was 
a  connoisseur  of  such. 

"Very  haughty!"  he  said,  "the  wild  buccaneer!" 

And  this  mot,  "the  buccaneer,"  was  bandied  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  till  it  became  the  favourite  mode  of 
alluding  to  Bosinney. 

Her  aunts  reproached  June  afterwards  about  the  hat. 

"We  don't  think  you  ought  to  let  him,  dear!"  they 
had  said. 

June  had  answered  in  her  imperious  brisk  way,  like 
the  little  embodiment  of  will  she  was: 

"Oh!  what  does  it  matter?  Phil  never  knows  what 
he  's  got  on! " 

No  one  had  credited  an  answer  so  outrageous.  A  man 
not  know  what  he  had  on?  No,  no! 

What  indeed  was  this  young  man,  who,  in  becoming 
engaged  to  June,  old  Jolyon's  acknowledged  heiress,  had 
done  so  well  for  himself?  He  was  an  architect,  not  in 
itself  a  sufficient  reason  for  wearing  such  a  hat.  None 
of  the  Forsytes  happened  to  be  architects,  but  one  of 
them  knew  two  architects  who  would  never  have  worn 
such  a  hat  upon  a  call  of  ceremony  in  the  London  season. 
Dangerous — ah,  dangerous! 

June,  of  course,  had  not  seen  this,  but,  though  not 
yet  nineteen,  she  was  notorious.  Had  she  not  said  to 
Mrs.  Soames — who  was  always  so  beautifully  dressed — 
that  feathers  were  vulgar?  Mrs.  Soames  had  actually 


41  At  Home  "  at  Old  Jolyon's          7 

given  up  wearing  feathers,  so  dreadfully  downright  was 
dear  June! 

These  misgivings,  this  disapproval  and  perfectly 
genuine  distrust,  did  not  prevent  the  Forsytes  from 
gathering  to  old  Jolyon's  invitation.  An  "At  Home"  at 
Stanhope  Gate  was  a  great  rarity;  none  had  been  held 
for  eight  years,  not  indeed,  since  old  Mrs.  Jolyon 
died. 

Never  had  there  been  so  full  an  assembly,  for,  mysteri- 
ously united  in  spite  of  all  their  differences,  they  had 
taken  arms  against  a  common  peril.  Like  cattle  when  a 
dog  comes  into  the  field,  they  stood  head  to  head  and 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  prepared  to  run  upon  and  trample 
the  invader  to  death.  They  had  come,  too,  no  doubt, 
to  get  some  notion  of  what  sort  of  presents  they  would 
ultimately  be  expected  to  give;  for  though  the  question 
of  wedding  gifts  was  usually  graduated  in  this  way: 
"What  are  you  givin'?  Nicholas  is  givin'  spoons!" 
so  very  much  depended  on  the  bridegroom.  If  he  were 
sleek,  well-brushed,  prosperous-looking,  it  was  more 
necessary  to  give  him  nice  things ;  he  would  expect  them. 
In  the  end  each  gave  exactly  what  was  right  and  proper, 
by  a  species  of  family  adjustment  arrived  at  as  prices 
are  arrived  at  on  the  Stock  Exchange — the  exact  niceties 
being  regulated  at  Timothy's  commodious,  red -brick 
residence  in  Bay  swat  er,  overlooking  the  Park,  where 
dwelt  Aunts  Ann,  Juley,  and  Hester. 

The  uneasiness  of  the  Forsyte  family  has  been  justified 
by  the  simple  mention  of  the  hat.  How  impossible  and 
wrong  would  it  have  been  for  any  family,  with  the  regard 
for  appearances  which  should  ever  characterise  the  great 
upper  middle-class,  to  feel  otherwise  than  uneasy! 

The  author  of  the  uneasiness  stood  talking  to  June  by 
the  further  door;  his  curly  hair  had  a  rumpled  appear- 
ance, as  though  he  found  what  was  going  on  around  him 


8  The  Man  of  Property 

unusual.  He  had  an  air,  too,  of  having  a  joke  all  to 
himself. 

George,  speaking  aside  to  his  brother  Eustace,  said: 

"Looks  as  if  he  might  make  a  bolt  of  it — the  dashing 
buccaneer!" 

This  "very  singular-looking  man,"  as  Mrs.  Small  after- 
wards called  him,  was  of  medium  height  and  strong 
build,  with  a  pale,  brown  face,  a  dust-coloured  moustache, 
very  prominent  cheek-bones,  and  hollow  cheeks.  His 
forehead  sloped  back  towards  the  crown  of  his  head,  and 
bulged  out  in  bumps  over  the  eyes,  like  foreheads  seen 
in  the  lion-house  at  the  Zoo.  He  had  sherry-coloured 
eyes,  disconcertingly  inattentive  at  times.  Old  Jolyon's 
coachman,  after  driving  June  and  Bosinney  to  the 
theatre,  had  remarked  to  the  butler: 

"I  dunno  what  to  make  of  4m.  Looks  to  me  for  all 
the  world  like  an  'alf-tame  leopard." 

And  every  now  and  then  a  Forsyte  would  come  up, 
sidle  round,  and  take  a  look  at  him. 

June  stood  in  front,  fending  off  this  idle  curiosity — a 
little  bit  of  a  thing,  as  somebody  once  said,  "all  hair  and 
spirit,"  with  fearless  blue  eyes,  a  firm  jaw,  and  a  bright 
colour,  whose  face  and  body  seemed  too  slender  for  her 
crown  of  red-gold  hair. 

A  tall  woman,  with  a  beautiful  figure,  which  some 
member  of  the  family  had  once  compared  to  a  heathen 
goddess,  stood  looking  at  these  two  with  a  shadowy 
smile. 

Her  hands,  gloved  in  French  grey,  were  crossed  one 
over  the  other,  her  grave,  charming  face  held  to  one  side, 
and  the  eyes  of  all  men  near  were  fastened  on  it.  Her 
figure  swayed,  so  balanced  that  the  very  air  seemed  to 
set  it  moving.  There  was  warmth,  but  little  colour,  in 
her  cheeks;  her  large,  dark  eyes  were  soft.  But  it  was 
at  her  lips — asking  a  question,  giving  an  answer,  with 


"At  Home"  at  Old  Jolyon's          9 

that  shadowy  smile — that  men  looked;  they  were  sen- 
sitive lips,  sensuous  and  sweet,  and  through  them  seemed 
to  come  warmth  and  perfume  like  the  warmth  and  per- 
fume of  a  flower. 

The  engaged  couple  thus  scrutinised  were  unconscious 
of  this  passive  goddess.  It  was  Bosinney  who  first 
noticed  her,  and  asked  her  name. 

June  took  her  lover  up  to  the  woman  with  the  beautiful 
figure. 

"Irene  is  my  greatest  chum,"  she  said.  "Please  be 
good  friends,  you  two. " 

At  the  little  lady's  command  they  all  three  smiled; 
and  while  they  were  smiling,  Soames  Forsyte,  silently 
appearing  from  behind  the  woman  with  the  beautiful 
figure,  who  was  his  wife,  said: 

"Ah!  introduce  me  too." 

He  was  seldom,  indeed,  far  from  Irene's  side  at  public 
functions,  and  even  when  separated  by  the  exigencies 
of  social  intercourse,  could  be  seen  following  her  about 
with  his  eyes,  in  which  were  strange  expressions  of 
watchfulness  and  longing. 

At  the  window  his  father,  James,  was  still  scrutinising 
the  marks  on  the  piece  of  china. 

"I  wonder  at  Jolyon's  allowing  this  engagement,"  he 
said  to  Aunt  Ann.  "They  tell  me  there  's  no  chance  of 
their  getting  married  for  years.  This  young  Bosinney 
[he  made  the  word  a  dactyl  in  opposition  to  general 
usage  of  a  short  "o"]  has  got  nothing.  When  Winifred 
married  Dartie,  I  made  him  bring  every  penny  into 
settlement — lucky  thing,  too — they'd  ha'  had  nothing 
by  this  time!" 

Aunt  Ann  looked  up  from  her  velvet  chair.  Grey  curls 
banded  her  forehead,  curls  that,  unchanged  for  decades, 
had  extinguished  in  the  family  all  sense  of  time.  She 
made  no  reply,  for  she  rarely  spoke,  husbanding  her 


io  The  Man  of  Property 

aged  voice;  but  to  James,  uneasy  of  conscience,  her  look 
was  as  good  as  an  answer. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  could  n't  help  Irene's  having  no 
money.  Soames  was  in  such  a  hurry;  he  got  quite  thin 
dancing  attendance  on  her." 

Putting  the  bowl  pettishly  down  on  the  piano,  he  let 
his  eyes  wander  to  the  group  by  the  door. 

"It  's  my  opinion,"  he  said  unexpectedly,  "that  it  's 
just  as  well  as  it  is." 

Aunt  Ann  did  not  ask  him  to  explain  this  strange 
utterance.  She  knew  what  he  was  thinking.  If  Irene 
had  no  money  she  would  not  be  so  foolish  as  to  do 
anything  wrong ;  for  they  said — they  said — she  had  been 
asking  for  a  separate  room;  but,  of  course,  Soames  had 
not 

James  interrupted  her  reverie: 

"But  where,"  he  asked,  "was  Timothy?  Had  n't  he 
come  with  them?" 

Through  Aunt  Ann's  compressed  lips  a  tender  smile 
forced  its  way. 

"No,  he  had  not  thought  it  wise,  with  so  much  of 
this  diphtheria  about;  and  he  is  so  liable  to  take 
things." 

James  answered: 

"Well,  he  takes  good  care  of  himself.  I  can't  afford  to 
take  the  care  of  myself  that  he  does." 

Nor  was  it  easy  to  say  which — admiration,  envy,  or 
contempt — was  dominant  in  that  remark. 

Timothy,  indeed,  was  seldom  seen.  The  baby  of  the 
family,  a  publisher  by  profession,  he  had  some  years 
before,  when  business  was  at  full  tide,  scented  out  the 
stagnation  which,  indeed,  had  not  yet  come,  but  which 
ultimately,  as  all  agreed,  was  bound  to  set  in,  and,  selling 
his  share  in  a  firm  engaged  mainly  in  the  production  of 
religious  books,  had  invested  the  quite  conspicuous 


"  At  Home  "  at  Old  Jolyon's         1 1 

proceeds  in  gilt-edged  securities.  By  this  act  he  had  at 
once  assumed  an  isolated  position,  no  other  Forsyte 
being  content  with  less  than  four  per  cent,  for  his  money; 
and  this  isolation  had  slowly  and  surely  undermined  a 
spirit  perhaps  better  than  commonly  endowed  with 
caution.  He  had  become  almost  a  myth — a  kind  of 
incarnation  of  security  haunting  the  background  of  the 
Forsyte  universe.  He  had  never  committed  the  im- 
prudence of  marrying,  or  encumbering  himself  in  any 
way  with  children. 

James  resumed,  tapping  the  piece  of  china: 
"This  is  n't  real  old  Worcester.  I  s'pose  Jolyon  's  told 
you  something  about  the  young  man.  From  all  /  can 
learn,  he  's  got  no  business,  no  income,  and  no  connection 
worth  speaking  of;  but  then,  I  know  nothing — nobody 
tells  me  anything." 

Aunt  Ann  shook  her  head.  Over  her  square-chinned, 
aquiline  old  face  a  trembling  passed;  the  spidery  fingers 
of  her  hands  pressed  against  each  other  and  interlaced, 
as  though  she  were  subtly  recharging  her  will. 

The  eldest  by  some  years  of  all  the  Forsytes,  she  held 
a  peculiar  position  amongst  them.  Opportunists  and 
egotists  one  and  all — though  not,  indeed,  more  so  than 
their  neighbours — they  quailed  before  her  incorruptible 
figure,  and,  when  opportunities  were  too  strong,  what 
could  they  do  but  avoid  her! 

Twisting  his  long,  thin  legs,  James  went  on: 
"Jolyon,  he  will  have  his  own  way.  He  's  got  no 
children — "  and  stopped,  recollecting  the  continued 
existence  of  old  Jolyon's  son,  young  Jolyon,  June's 
father,  who  had  made  such  a  mess  of  it,  and  done  for 
himself  by  deserting  his  wife  and  child  and  running  away 
with  that  foreign  governess.  "Well,"  he  resumed 
hastily,  "if  he  likes  to  do  these  things,  I  s'pose  he  can 
afford  to.  Now,  what 's  he  going  to  give  her?  I  s'pose 


i2  The  Man  of  Property 

he  '11  give  her  a  thousand  a  year;  he  's  got  nobody  else 
to  leave  his  money  to." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  meet  that  of  a  dapper, 
clean-shaven  man,  with  hardly  a  hair  on  his  head,  a  long, 
broken  nose,  full  lips,  and  cold  grey  eyes  under  rectan- 
gular brows. 

"Well,  Nick,"  he  muttered,  "how  are  you?" 

Nicholas  Forsyte,  with  his  bird-like  rapidity  and  the 
look  of  a  preternaturally  sage  schoolboy  (he  had  made 
a  large  fortune,  quite  legitimately,  out  of  the  com- 
panies of  which  he  was  a  director),  placed  within  that 
cold  palm  the  tips  of  his  still  colder  fingers  and  hastily 
withdrew  them. 

"I  'm  bad,"  he  said,  pouting — "been  bad  all  the  week; 
don't  sleep  at  night.  The  doctor  can't  tell  why.  He  's  a 
clever  fellow,  or  I  should  n't  have  him,  but  I  get  nothing 
out  of  him  but  bills." 

"Doctors!"  said  James,  coming  down  sharp  on  his 
words;  "I've  had  all  the  doctors  in  London  for  one  or 
another  of  us.  There  's  no  satisfaction  to  be  got  out  of 
them;  they  '11  tell  you  anything.  There  's  Swithin,  now. 
What  good  have  they  done  him?  There  he  is ;  he  's  bigger 
than  ever;  he's  enormous;  they  can't  get  his  weight 
down.  Look  at  him!" 

Swithin  Forsyte,  tall,  square,  and  broad,  with  a  chest 
like  a  pouter  pigeon's  in  its  plumage  of  bright  waistcoats, 
came  strutting  towards  them. 

"Er — how  are  you?"  he  said  in  his  dandified  way, 
aspirating  the  "h"  strongly  (this  difficult  letter  was 
almost  absolutely  safe  in  his  keeping) — "how  are  you?" 

Each  brother  wore  an  air  of  aggravation  as  he  looked 
at  the  other  two,  knowing  by  experience  that  they  would 
try  to  eclipse  his  ailments. 

"We*were  just  saying,"  said  James,  "that  you  don't 
get  any  thinner." 


"  At  Home  "  at  Old  Jolyon's         13 

Swithin  protruded  his  pale  round  eyes  with  the  effort 
of  hearing. 

"Thinner?  I'm  in  good  case,"  he  said,  leaning  a  little 
forward,  "not  one  of  your  thread-papers  like  you!" 

But,  afraid  of  losing  the  expansion  of  his  chest,  he 
leaned  back  again  into  a  state  of  immobility,  for  he 
prized  nothing  so  highly  as  a  distinguished  appearance. 

Aunt  Ann  turned  her  old  eyes  from  one  to  the  other. 
Indulgent  and  severe  was  her  look.  In  turn  the  three 
brothers  looked  at  Ann.  She  was  getting  shaky. 
Wonderful  woman!  Eighty-six  if  a  day;  might  live 
another  ten  years,  and  had  never  been  strong.  Swithin 
and  James,  the  twins,  were  only  seventy-five,  Nicholas 
a  mere  baby  of  seventy  or  so.  All  were  strong,  and  the 
inference  was  comforting.  Of  all  forms  of  property  their 
respective  healths  naturally  concerned  them  most. 

"  I  'm  very  well,  in  myself,"  proceeded  James,  "but  my 
nerves  are  out  of  order.  The  least  thing  worries  me  to 
death.  I  shall  have  to  go  to  Bath." 

"Bath!"  said  Nicholas.  "I've  tried  Harrogate. 
That 's  no  good.  What  I  want  is  sea  air.  There 's 
nothing  like  Yarmouth.  Now,  when  I  go  there  I 
sleep— 

"My  liver's  very  bad,"  interrupted  Swithin  slowly. 
"Dreadful  pain  here;"  and  he  placed  his  hand  on  his 
right  side. 

"Want  of  exercise,"  muttered  James,  his  eyes  on  the 
china.  He  quickly  added:  "I  get  a  pain  there,  too." 

Swithin  reddened,  a  resemblance  to  a  turkey-cock 
coming  upon  his  old  face. 

"  Exercise!  "  he  said.  "  I  take  plenty:  I  never  use  the 
lift  at  the  Club." 

"I  didn't  know,"  James  hurried  out.  "I  know 
nothing  about  anybody;  nobody  tells  me  anything." 

Swithin  fixed  him  with  a  stare,  and  asked: 


14  The  Man  of  Property 

"What  do  you  do  for  a  pain  there?''' 

James  brightened. 

"I,"  he  began,  "take  a  compound " 

"How  are  you,  uncle?" 

And  June  stood  before  him,  her  resolute  small  face 
raised  from  her  little  height  to  his  great  height,  and  her 
hand  out  held. 

The  brightness  faded  from  James's  visage. 

"How  are  your'  he  said,  brooding  over  her.  "So 
you  're  going  to  Wales  to-morrow  to  visit  your  young 
man's  aunts?  You'll  have  a  lot  of  rain  there.  This 
is  n't  real  old  Worcester."  He  tapped  the  bowl.  "  Now, 
that  set  I  gave  your  mother  when  she  married  was  the 
genuine  thing." 

June  shook  hands  one  by  one  with  her  three  great - 
uncles,  and  turned  to  Aunt  Ann.  A  very  sweet  look 
had  come  into  the  old  lady's  face;  she  kissed  the  girl's 
cheek  with  trembling  fervour. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "and  so  you  're  going  for  a 
whole  month!" 

The  girl  passed  on,  and  Aunt  Ann  looked  after  her 
slim  little  figure.  The  old  lady's  round,  steel-grey  eyes, 
over  which  a  film  like  a  bird's  was  beginning  to  come, 
followed  her  wistfully  amongst  the  bustling  crowd,  for 
people  were  beginning  to  say  good-bye;  and  her  finger- 
tips, pressing  and  pressing  against  each  other,  were  busy 
again  with  the  recharging  of  her  will  against  her  own 
inevitable  ultimate  departure. 

"Yes,"  she  thought,  "everybody's  been  most  kind; 
quite  a  lot  of  people  come  to  congratulate  her.  She 
ought  to  be  very  happy." 

Amongst  the  throng  of  people  by  the  door — the  well- 
dressed  throng  drawn  from  the  families  of  lawyers  and 
doctors,  from  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  all  the  innumer- 
able avocations  of  the  upper  middle  class — there  were 


"At  Home"  at  Old  Jolyon's         15 

only  some  twenty  per  cent,  of  Forsytes;  but  to  Aunt 
Ann  they  seemed  all  Forsytes — and  certainly  there  was 
not  much  difference — she  saw  only  her  own  flesh  and 
blood.  It  was  her  world,  this  family,  and  she  knew  no 
other,  had  never  perhaps  known  any  other.  All  their 
little  secrets,  illnesses,  engagements,  and  marriages,  how 
they  were  getting  on,  and  whether  they  were  making 
money — all  this  was  her  property,  her  delight,  her  life; 
beyond  this  only  a  vague,  shadowy  mist  of  facts  and 
persons  of  no  real  significance.  This  it  was  that  she 
would  have  to  lay  down  when  it  came  her  turn  to  die ; 
this  which  gave  to  her  that  importance,  that  secret  self- 
importance,  without  which  none  of  us  can  bear  to  live; 
and  to  this  she  clung  wistfully,  with  a  greed  that  grew 
each  day.  If  life  were  slipping  away  from  her,  this  she 
would  retain  to  the  end. 

She  thought  of  June's  father,  young  Jolyon,  who  had 
run  away  with  that  foreign  girl.  Ah!  what  a  sad  blow 
to  his  father  and  to  them  all.  Such  a  promising  young 
fellow!  A  sad  blow,  though  there  had  been  no  public 
scandal,  most  fortunately,  Jo's  wife  seeking  for  no 
divorce!  A  long  time  ago!  And  when  June's  mother 
died,  eight  years  ago,  Jo  had  married  that  woman,  and 
they  had  two  children  now,  so  she  had  heard.  Still, 
he  had  forfeited  his  right  to  be  there,  had  cheated  her 
of  the  complete  fulfilment  of  her  family  pride,  deprived 
her  of  the  rightful  pleasure  of  seeing  and  kissing  him  of 
whom  she  had  been  so  proud,  such  a  promising  young 
fellow!  The  thought  rankled  with  the  bitterness  of  a 
long-inflicted  injury  in  her  tenacious  old  heart.  A  little 
water  stood  in  her  eyes.  With  a  handkerchief  of  the 
finest  lawn  she  wiped  them  stealthily. 

"  Well,  Aunt  Ann?  "  said  a  voice  behind. 

Soames  Forsyte,  flat-shouldered,  clean-shaven,  flat- 
cheeked,  flat-waisted,  yet  with  something  round  and 


1 6  The  Man  of  Property 

secret  about  his  whole  appearance,  looked  downwards 
and  aslant  at  Aunt  Ann,  as  though  trying  to  see  through 
the  side  of  his  own  nose. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  the  engagement  ? "  he  asked. 

Aunt  Ann's  eyes  rested  on  him  proudly;  the  eldest  of 
the  nephews  since  young  Jolyon's  departure  from  the 
family  nest,  he  was  now  her  favourite,  for  she  recog- 
nised in  him  a  sure  trustee  of  the  family  soul  that  must 
so  soon  slip  beyond  her  keeping. 

"  Very  nice  for  the  young  man,"  she  said;  "  and  he  's  a 
good-looking  young  fellow;  but  I  doubt  if  he  's  quite  the 
right  lover  for  dear  June." 

Soames  touched  the  edge  of  a  gold-lacquered  lustre. 

"  She  '11  tame  him,"  he  said,  stealthily  wetting  his 
finger  and  rubbing  it  on  the  knobby  bulbs.  "  That 's 
genuine  old  lacquer;  you  can't  get  it  nowadays.  It 'd 
do  well  in  a  sale  at  Jobson's."  He  spoke  with  relish, 
as  though  he  felt  that  he  was  cheering  up  his  old  aunt. 
It  was  seldom  he  was  so  confidential.  "  I  would  n't 
mind  having  it  myself,"  he  added;  "  you  can  always  get 
your  price  for  old  lacquer." 

"  You're  so  clever  with  all  those  things,"  said  Aunt 
Ann.  "  And  how  is  dear  Irene  ?  " 

Soames's  smile  died. 

"  Pretty  well,"  he  said.  "  Complains  she  can't  sleep; 
she  sleeps  a  great  deal  better  than  I  do,"  and  he  looked 
at  his  wife,  who  was  talking  to  Bosinney  by  the  door. 

Aunt  Ann  sighed. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  "  it  will  be  just  as  well  for  her  not 
to  see  so  much  of  June.  She  's  such  a  decided  character, 
dear  June!  " 

Soames  flushed,  his  flushes  passed  rapidly  over  his 
flat  cheeks  and  centred  between  his  eyes,  where  they 
remained,  the  stamp  of  disturbing  thoughts. 

"  I  don't  know  what  she  sees  in  that  little  flibberti- 


"  At  Home"  at  Old  Jolyon's         17 

gibbet,"  he  burst  out,  but  noticing  that  they  were  no 
longer  alone,  he  turned  and  again  began  examining  the 
lustre. 

"They  tell  me  Jolyon 's  bought  another  house,"  said 
his  father's  voice  close  by;  "he  must  have  a  lot  of 
money — he  must  have  more  money  than  he  knows 
what  to  do  with!  Montpellier  Square,  they  say;  close 
to  Soames!  They  never  told  me — Irene  never  tells  me 
anything!  " 

"  Capital  position,  not  two  minutes  from  me,"  said  the 
voice  of  S  within,  "  and  from  my  rooms  I  can  drive  to  the 
Club  in  eight." 

The  position  of  their  houses  was  of  vital  importance 
to  the  Forsytes,  nor  was  this  remarkable,  since  the  whole 
spirit  of  their  success  was  embodied  therein. 

Their  father,  of  farming  stock,  had  come  from  Dorset- 
shire near  the  beginning  of  the  century. 

"  Superior  Dosset  Forsyte,"  as  he  was  called  by  his 
intimates,  had  been  a  stone-mason  by  trade,  and  risen  to 
the  position  of  a  master-builder.  Towards  the  end  of 
his  life  he  moved  to  London,  where,  building  on  until 
he  died,  he  was  buried  at  Highgate.  He  left  over 
thirty  thousand  pounds  to  his  ten  children.  Old  Jolyon 
alluded  to  him,  if  at  all,  as  "A  hard,  thick  sort  of 
man;  not  much  refinement  about  him."  The  second 
generation  of  Forsytes  felt  indeed  that  he  was  not  greatly 
to  their  credit.  The  only  aristocratic  trait  they 
could  find  in  his  character  was  a  habit  of  drinking 
Madeira. 

Aunt  Hester,  an  authority  on  family  history,  described 
him  thus: 

"  I  don't  recollect  that  he  ever  did  anything;  at  least, 
not  in  my  time.  He  was  er — an  owner  of  houses,  my 
dear.  His  hair  was  about  your  Uncle  Swithin's  colour; 
rather  a  square  build.  Tall?  No-ot  very  tall"  (he  had 


1 8  The  Man  of  Property 

been  five  feet  five,  with  a  mottled  face) ;  "  a  fresh-coloured 
man.  I  remember  he  used  to  drink  Madeira;  but  ask 
your  Aunt  Ann.  What  was  his  father?  He — er — had 
to  do  with  the  land  down  in  Dorsetshire,  by  the  sea." 

James  once  went  down  to  see  for  himself  what  sort  of 
place  this  was  that  they  had  come  from.  He  found  two 
old  farms,  with  a  cart  track  rutted  into  the  pink  earth, 
leading  down  to  a  mill  by  the  beach;  a  little  grey 
church  with  a  buttressed  outer  wall,  and  a  smaller  and 
greyer  chapel.  The  stream  which  worked  the  mill 
came  bubbling  down  in  a  dozen  rivulets,  and  pigs  were 
hunting  round  that  estuary.  A  haze  hovered  over  the 
prospect.  Down  this  hollow,  with  their  feet  deep  in  the 
mud  and  their  faces  towards  the  sea,  it  appeared  that 
the  primeval  Forsytes  had  been  content  to  walk  Sunday 
after  Sunday  for  hundreds  of  years. 

Whether  or  no  James  had  cherished  hopes  of  an 
inheritance,  or  of  something  rather  distinguished  to  be 
found  down  there,  he  came  back  to  town  in  a  poor  way 
and  went  about  with  a  pathetic  attempt  at  making  the 
best  of  a  bad  job. 

11  There's  very  little  to  be  had  out  of  that,"  he  said; 
"  regular  country  little  place,  old  as  the  hills." 

Its  age  was  felt  to  be  a  comfort.  Old  Jolyon,  in  whom 
a  desperate  honesty  welled  up  at  times,  would  allude  to 
his  ancetsors  as  "  Yeomen — I  suppose  very  small  beer." 
Yet  he  would  repeat  the  word  "  yeomen  "  as  if  it  afforded 
him  consolation. 

They  had  all  done  so  well  for  themselves,  these 
Forsytes,  that  they  were  all  what  is  called  "  of  a  certain 
position."  They  had  shares  in  all  sorts  of  things,  not 
as  yet — with  the  exception  of  Timothy — in  consols, 
for  they  had  no  dread  in  life  like  that  of  three  per  cent,  for 
their  money.  They  collected  pictures,  too,  and  were 
supporters  of  such  charitable  institutions  as  might  be 


"At  Home"  at  Old  Jolyon's         19 

beneficial  to  their  sick  domestics.  From  their  father, 
the  stone-mason,  they  inherited  a  talent  for  bricks  and 
mortar.  Originally,  perhaps,  members  of  some  primi- 
tive sect,  they  were  now  in  the  natural  course  of  things 
members  of  the  Church  of  England,  and  caused  their 
wives  and  children  to  attend  with  some  regularity  the 
more  fashionable  churches  of  the  Metropolis.  To  have 
doubted  their  Christianity  would  have  caused  them  both 
pain  and  surprise.  Some  of  them  paid  for  pews,  thus 
expressing  in  the  most  practical  form  their  sympathy 
with  the  teachings  of  Christ. 

Their  residences,  placed  at  stated  intervals  round  the 
park,  watched  like  sentinels,  lest  the  fair  heart  of  London 
where  their  desires  were  fixed,  should  slip  from  their 
clutches,  and  leave  them  lower  in  their  own  esti- 
mations. 

There  was  old  Jolyon  in  Stanhope  Place;  the  Jameses 
in  Park  Lane ;  Swithin  in  the  lonely  glory  of  orange  and 
blue  chambers  in  Hyde  Park  Mansions — he  had  never 
married,  not  he! — the  Soameses  in  their  nest  off  Knights- 
bridge;  the  Rogers  in  Prince's  Gardens  (Roger  was  that 
remarkable  Forsyte  who  had  conceived  and  carried  out 
the  notion  of  bringing  up  his  four  sons  to  a  new  pro- 
fession. "Collect  house  property — nothing  like  it!" 
he  would  say ;  "7  never  did  any  thing  else ! ") . 

The  Haymans  again — Mrs.  Hayman  was  the  one 
married  Forsyte  sister — in  a  house  high  up  on  Campden 
Hill,  shaped  like  a  giraffe,  and  so  tall  that  it  gave  the 
observer  a  crick  in  the  neck ;  the  Nicholases  in  Ladbroke 
Grove,  a  spacious  abode  and  a  great  bargain;  and  last, 
but  not  least,  Timothy's  on  the  Bays  water  Road,  where 
Ann,  and  Juley,  and  Hester  lived  under  his  protection. 

But  all  this  time  James  was  musing,  and  now  he  in- 
quired of  his  host  and  brother  what  he  had  given  for 
that  house  in  Montpellier  Square.  He  himself  had  had 


20  The  Man  of  Property 

his  eye  on  a  house  there  for  the  last  two  years,  but  they 
wanted  such  a  price. 

Old  Jolyon  recounted  the  details  of  his  purchase. 
"Twenty-two  years  to  run?"   repeated  James;   "the 
very  house  I  was  after — you  've  given  too  much  for  it! " 
Old  Jolyon  frowned. 

"It 's  not  that  I  want  it,"  said  James  hastily;  "  would  'nt 
suit  my  purpose  at  that  price.  Soames  knows  the 
house,  well — he  '11  tell  you  it 's  too  dear — his  opinion  's 
worth  having." 

"I  don't,"  said  old  Jolyon,  "care  a  fig  for  his  opinion." 
"Well,"  murmured  James,  "you  will  have  your  own 
way — it  's  a  good  opinion.  Good-bye!  We  're  going 
to  drive  down  to  Hurlingham.  They  tell  me  June  's 
going  to  Wales.  You  '11  be  lonely  to-morrow.  What  '11 
you  do  with  yourself?  You  'd  better  come  and  dine 
with  us!" 

Old  Jolyon  refused.  He  went  down  to  the  front 
door  and  saw  them  into  their  barouche,  and  twinkled 
at  them,  having  already  forgotten  his  spleen — Mrs. 
James  facing  the  horses,  tall  and  majestic  with  auburn 
hair;  on  her  left,  Irene — the  two  husbands,  father  and 
son,  sitting  forward,  as  though  they  expected  something, 
opposite  their  wives.  Bobbing  and  bounding  upon  the 
spring  cushions,  silent,  swaying  to  each  motion  of  their 
chariot,  old  Jolyon  watched  them  drive  away  under  the 
sunlight. 

During  the  drive  the  silence  was  broken  by  Mrs.  James. 
"Did  you  ever   see   such   a   collection   of  rumty-too 
people?" 

Soames,  glancing  at  her  beneath  his  eyelids,  nodded, 
and  he  saw  Irene  steal  at  him  one  of  her  unfathomable 
looks.  It  is  likely  enough  that  each  branch  of  the 
Forsyte  family  made  that  remark  as  they  drove  away 
from  old  Jolyon's  "At  Home.  " 


"At  Home  "  at  Old  Jolyon's         21 

Amongst  the  last  of  the  departing  guests  the  fourth 
and  fifth  brothers,  Nicholas  and  Roger,  walked  away 
together,  directing  their  steps  alongside  Hyde  Park 
towards  the  Praed  Street  Station  of  the  Underground. 
Like  all  other  Forsytes  of  a  certain  age  they  kept  car- 
riages of  their  own,  and  never  took  cabs  if  by  any  means 
they  could  avoid  it. 

The  day  was  bright,  the  trees  of  the  Park  in  the  full 
beauty  of  mid-June  foliage;  the  brothers  did  not  seem 
to  notice  phenomena,  which  contributed,  nevertheless, 
to  the  jauntiness  of  promenade  and  conversation. 

"Yes,"  said  Roger,  "she's  a  good-lookin'  woman, 
that  wife  of  Soames's.  I  'm  told  they  don't  get 
on." 

This  brother  had  a  high  forehead,  and  the  freshest 
colour  of  any  of  the  Forsytes ;  his  light  grey  eyes  meas- 
ured the  street  frontage  of  the  houses  by  the  way,  and 
now  and  then  he  would  level  his  umbrella  and  take  a 
1 '  lunar,"  as  he  expressed  it,  of  the  varying  heights. 

"She  'd  no  money,"  replied  Nicholas. 

He  himself  had  married  a  good  deal  of  money,  of 
which,  it  being  then  the  golden  age  before  the  Married 
Women's  Property  Act,  he  had  mercifully  been  enabled 
to  make  a  successful  use. 

"What  was  her  father?" 

"Heron  was  his  name,  a  Professor,  so  they  tell  me." 

Roger  shook  his  head. 

"There  's  no  money  in  that,"  he  said. 

"They  say  her  mother's  father  was  cement. " 

Roger's  face  brightened. 

"But  he  went  bankrupt,"  went  on  Nicholas. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Roger,  "Soames  will  have  trouble 
with  her;  you  mark  my  words,  he  '11  have  trouble- 
she  's  got  a  foreign  look. " 

Nicholas  licked  his  lips. 


22  The  Man  of  Property 

" She's  a  pretty  woman,"  and  he  waved  aside  a 
crossing-sweeper. 

"How  did  he  get  hold  of  her?"  asked  Roger  pres- 
ently. ' '  She  must  cost  him  a  pretty  penny  in  dress ! ' ' 

"Ann  tells  me,"  replied  Nicholas,  "he  was  half- 
cracked  about  her.  She  refused  him  five  times.  James 
he  's  nervous  about  it,  I  can  see. " 

"  Ah! "  said  Roger  again;  "I'm  sorry  for  James;  he  had 
trouble  with  Dartie. ' '  His  pleasant  colour  was  heightened 
by  exercise,  he  swung  his  umbrella  to  the  level  of  his 
eye  more  frequently  than  ever.  Nicholas's  face  also 
wore  a  pleasant  look. 

"  Too  pale  for  me,"  he  said,  "  but  her  figure  's  capital!" 

Roger  made  no  reply. 

"  I  call  her  distinguished-looking,"  he  said  at  last — it 
was  the  highest  praise  in  the  Forsyte  vocabulary. 
"  That  young  Bosinney  will  never  do  any  good  for  him- 
self. They  say  at  Burkitt's  he  's  one  of  these  artistic 
chaps — got  an  idea  of  improving  English  architecture; 
there  's  no  money  in  that !  I  should  like  to  hear  what 
Timothy  would  say  to  it." 

They  entered  the  station. 

"  What  class  are  you  going?     I  go  second." 

"  No  second  for  me,"  said  Nicholas;  "  you  never 
know  what  you  may  catch." 

He  took  a  first-class  ticket  to  Notting  Hill  Gate; 
Roger  a  second  to  South  Kensington.  The  train  coming 
in  a  minute  later,  the  two  brothers  parted  and  entered 
their  respective  compartments.  Each  felt  aggrieved 
that  the  other  had  not  modified  his  habits  to  secure 
his  society  a  little  longer;  but  as  Roger  voiced  it  in  his 
thoughts: 

"  Always  a  stubborn  beggar,  Nick!  " 

And  as  Nicholas  expressed  it  to  himself: 

'*  Cantankerous  chap  Roger  always  wasl " 


"  At  Home  "  at  Old  Jolyon's         23 

There  was  little  sentimentality  about  the  Forsytes. 
In  that  great  London,  which  they  had  conquered  and 
in  which  they  had  become  merged,  what  time  had  they 
to  be  sentimental? 


CHAPTER  II 

OLD  JOLYON  GOES  TO  THE  OPERA 

\ 

AT  five  o'clock  the  following  day  old  Jolyon  sat  alone, 
a  cigar  between  his  lips,  and  on  a  table  by  his 
side  a  cup  of  tea.  He  was  tired,  and  before  he  had 
finished  his  cigar  he  fell  asleep.  A  fly  settled  on  his 
hair,  his  breathing  sounded  heavy  in  the  drowsy  silence, 
his  upper  lip  under  the  white  moustache  puffed  in 
and  out.  From  between  the  fingers  of  his  veined  and 
wrinkled  hand  the  cigar,  dropping  on  the  empty  hearth, 
burned  itself  out. 

The  gloomy  little  study,  with  windows  of  stained  glass 
to  exclude  the  view,  was  full  of  dark  green  velvet  and 
heavily-carved  mahogany — a  suite  of  which  old  Jolyon 
was  wont  to  say:  "  Shouldn't  wonder  if  it  made  a  big 
price  some  day!  " 

It  was  pleasant  to  think  that  in  the  after  life  he  could 
get  more  for  things  than  he  had  given. 

In  the  rich  brown  atmosphere  peculiar  to  back  rooms 
in  the  mansion  of  a  Forsyte,  the  Rembrandt esque 
effect  of  his  great  head,  with  its  white  hair,  against  the 
cushion  of  his  high-backed  seat,  was  spoiled  by  the 
moustache,  which  imparted  a  somewhat  military  look  to 
his  face.  An  old  clock  that  had  been  with  him  since 
before  his  marriage  fifty  years  ago  kept  with  its  ticking 
a  jealous  record  of  the  seconds  slipping  away  for  ever 
from  its  old  master. 

24 


Old  Jolyon  Goes  to  the  Opera       25 

-,  He  had  never  cared  for  this  room,  hardly  going  into 
it  from  one  year's  end  to  another,  except  to  take  cigars 
from  the  Japanese  cabinet  in  the  corner,  and  the  room 
now  had  its  revenge. 

His  temples,  curving  like  thatches  over  the  hollows 
beneath,  his  cheek-bones  and  chin,  all  were  sharpened 
in  his  sleep,  and  there  had  come  upon  his  face  the  con- 
fession that  he  was  an  old  man. 

He  woke.  June  had  gone!  James  had  said  he  would 
be  lonely.  James  had  always  been  a  poor  thing.  He 
recollected  with  satisfaction  that  he  had  bought  that 
house  over  James's  head.  Serve  him  right  for  sticking 
at  the  price;  the  only  thing  the  fellow  thought  of  was 
money.  Had  he  given  too  much,  though?  It  wanted 

a  lot  of  doing  to He  dared  say  he  would  want 

all  his  money  before  he  had  done  with  this  affair  of 
June's.  He  ought  never  to  have  allowed  the  engage- 
ment. She  had  met  this  Bosinney  at  the  house  of 
Baynes — Baynes  and  Bildeboy,  the  architects.  He 
believed  that  Baynes,  whom  he  'knew — a  bit  of  an  old 
woman — was  the  young  man's  uncle  by  marriage. 
After  that  she  'd  been  always  running  after  him ;  and 
when  she  took  a  thing  into  her  head  there  was  no  stopping 
her.  She  was  continually  taking  up  with  ' '  lame  ducks  ' ' 
of  one  sort  or  another.  This  fellow  had  no  money,  but 
she  must  needs  become  engaged  to  him — a  harum- 
scarum,  unpractical  chap,  who  would  get  himself  into 
no  end  of  difficulties. 

She  had  come  to  him  one  day  in  her  slap-dash  way 
and  told  him;  and,  as  if  it  were  any  consolation,  she 
had  added: 

"He's  so  splendid;  he's  often  lived  on  cocoa  for  a 
week! " 

"  And  he  wants  you  to  live  on  cocoa  too  ?  " 

'"Oh,  no;  he  is  getting  into  the  swim  now."  ' 


26  The  Man  of  Property 

Old  Jolyon  had  taken  his  cigar  from  under  his  white 
moustaches,  stained  by  coffee  at  the  edge,  and  looked 
at  her,  that  little  slip  of  a  thing  who  had  got  such  a  grip 
of  his  heart.  He  knew  more  about  "  swims  "  than  his 
granddaughter.  But  she,  having  clasped  her  hands  on 
his  knees,  rubbed  her  chin  against  him,  making  a  sound 
like  a  purring  cat.  And,  knocking  the  ash  off  his  cigar, 
he  had  exploded  in  nervous  desperation: 

"  You  're  all  alike:  you  won't  be  satisfied  till  you  've 
got  what  you  want.  If  you  must  come  to  grief,  you 
must;  /  wash  my  hands  of  it." 

So,  he  had  washed  his  hands  of  it,  making  the  con- 
dition that  they  should  not  marry  until  Bosinney  had 
at  least  four  hundred  a  year. 

"  /  shan't  be  able  to  give  you  very  much,"  he  had  said, 
a  formula  to  which  June  was  not  unaccustomed.  "  Per- 
haps this  What's-his-name  will  provide  the  cocoa." 

He  had  hardly  seen  anything  of  her  since  it  began. 
A  bad  business!  He  had  no  notion  of  giving  her  a  lot 
of  money  to  enable  a  fellow  he  knew  nothing  about  to 
live  on  in  idleness.  He  had  seen  that  sort  of  thing  before ; 
no  good  ever  came  of  it.  Worst  of  all,  he  had  no  hope  of 
shaking  her  resolution;  she  was  as  obstinate  as  a  mule, 
always  had  been  from  a  child.  He  did  n't  see  where  it 
was  to  end.  They  must  cut  their  coat  according  to  their 
cloth.  He  would  not  give  way  till  he  saw  young  Bosinney 
with  an  income  of  his  own.  That  June  would  have 
trouble  with  the  fellow  was  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff; 
he  had  no  more  idea  of  money  than  a  cow.  As  to  this 
rushing  down  to  Wales  to  visit  the  young  man's  aunts, 
he  fully  expected  they  were  old  cats. 

And,  motionless,  old  Jolyon  stared  at  the  wall;  but 
for  his  open  eyes,  he  might  have  been  asleep.  .  .  .  The 
idea  of  supposing  that  young  cub  Soames  could  give 
him  advice!  He  had  always  been  a  cub,  with  his  nose 


Old  Jolyon  Goes  to  the  Opera       27 

in  the  air!  He  would  be  setting  up  as  a  man  of  property 
next,  with  a  place  in  the  country!  A  man  of  property! 
H'mph!  Like  his  father,  he  was  always  nosing  out 
bargains,  a  cold-blooded  young  beggar! 

He  rose,  and,  going  to  the  cabinet,  began  methodically 
stocking  his  cigar-case  from  a  bundle  fresh  in.  They 
were  not  bad  at  the  price,  but  you  could  n't  get  a  good 
cigar  nowadays,  nothing  to  hold  a  candle  to  those  old 
Superfmos  of  Hanson  and  Bridger's.  That  was  a  cigar! 

The  thought,  like  some  stealing  perfume,  carried  him 
back  to  those  wonderful  nights  at  Richmond  when  after 
dinner  he  sat  smoking  on  the  terrace  of  the  Crown  and 
Sceptre  with  Nicholas  Treffry  and  Traquair  and  Jack 
Herring  and  Anthony  Thornworthy.  How  good  his 
cigars  were  then!  Poor  old  Nick! — dead,  and  Jack 
Herring — dead,  and  Traquair — dead  of  that  wife  of 
his,  and  Thornworthy — awfully  shaky  (no  wonder, 
with  his  appetite). 

Of  all  the  company  of  those  days  he  himself  alone 
seemed  left,  except  S within,  of  course,  and  he  so  out- 
rageously big  there  was  no  doing  anything  with  him. 

Difficult  to  believe  it  was  so  long  ago;  he  felt  young 
still!  Of  all  his  thoughts,  as  he  stood  there  counting 
his  cigars,  this  was  the  most  poignant,  the  most  bitter. 
With  his  white  head  and  his  loneliness  he  had  remained 
young  and  green  at  heart.  And  those  Sunday  after- 
noons on  Hampstead  Heath,  when  young  Jolyon  and 
he  went  for  a  stretch  along  the  Spaniard's  Road  to 
Highgate,  to  Child's  Hill,  and  back  over  the  Heath  again 
to  dine  at  Jack  Straw's  Castle — how  delicious  his  cigars 
were  then!  And  such  weather!  There  was  no  weather 
now. 

When  June  was  a  toddler  of  five,  and  every  other 
Sunday  he  took  her  to  the  Zoo,  away  from  the  society 
of  those  two  good  women,  her  mother  and  her  grand- 


28  The  Man  of  Property 

mother,  and  at  the  top  of  the  bear-den  baited  his  um- 
brella with  buns  for  her  favourite  bears,  how  sweet  his 
cigars  were  then ! 

Cigars!  He  had  not  even  succeeded  in  outliving  his 
palate — the  famous  palate  that  in  the  fifties  men  swore 
by,  and  speaking  of  him,  said:  "Forsyte — the  best  palate 
in  London!"  The  palate  that  in  a  sense  had  made  his 
fortune — the  fortune  of  the  celebrated  tea  men  Forsyte 
and  Treffry,  whose  tea,  like  no  other  man's  tea,  had  a 
romantic  aroma,  the  charm  of  a  quite  singular  genuine- 
ness. About  the  house  of  Forsyte  and  Treffry  in  the 
City  had  clung  an  air  of  enterprise  and  mystery,  of  special 
dealings  in  special  ships,  at  special  ports,  with  special 
Orientals. 

He  had  worked  at  that  business!  Men  did  work  in 
those  days !  these  young  pups  hardly  knew  the  meaning 
of  the  word.  He  had  gone  into  every  detail,  known 
everything  that  went  on,  sometimes  sat  up  all  night 
over  it.  And  he  had  always  chosen  his  agents  himself, 
prided  himself  on  it.  His  eye  for  men,  he  used  to  say, 
had  been  the  secret  of  his  success,  and  the  exercise  of 
this  masterful  power  of  selection  had  been  the  only 
part  of  it  all  that  he  had  really  liked.  Not  a  career  for  a 
man  of  his  ability.  Even  now,  when  the  business  had 
been  turned  into  a  Limited  Liability  Company,  and  was 
declining  (he  had  got  out  of  his  shares  long  ago),  he 
felt  a  sharp  chagrin  in  thinking  of  that  time.  How 
much  better  he  might  have  done!  He  would  have 
succeeded  splendidly  at  the  Bar!  He  had  even  thought 
of  standing  for  Parliament.  How  often  had  not  Nicholas 
Treffry  said  to  him:  "You  could  do  anything,  Jo,  if 
you  weren't  so  d-damned  careful  of  yourself!"  Dear 
old  Nick!  Such  a  good  fellow,  but  a  racketty  chap! 
The  notorious  Treffry!  He  had  never  taken  any  care 
of  himself.  So  he  was  dead.  Old  Jolyon  counted  his 


Old  Jolyon  Goes  to  the  Opera       29 

cigars  with  a  steady  hand,  and  it  came  into  his  mind  to 
wonder  if  perhaps  he  had  been  too  careful  of  himself. 

He  put  the  cigar-case  in  the  breast  of  his  coat,  buttoned 
it  in,  and  walked  up  the  long  flights  to  his  bedroom, 
leaning  on  one  foot  and  the  other,  and  helping  himself 
by  the  banister.  The  house  was  too  big.  After  June 
was  married,  if  she  ever  did  marry  this  fellow,  as  he 
supposed  she  would,  he  would  let  it  and  go  into  rooms. 
What  was  the  use  of  keeping  half  a  dozen  servants 
eating  their  heads  off  ? 

The  butler  came  to  the  ring  of  his  bell — a  large  man 
with  a  beard,  a  soft  tread,  and  a  peculiar  capacity  for 
silence.  Old  Jolyon  told  him  to  put  his  dress  clothes 
out;  he  was  going  to  dine  at  the  Club. 

"How  long  has  the  carriage  been  back  from  taking 
Miss  June  to  the  station?  Since  two?  Then  let  him 
come  round  at  half -past  six." 

The  Club  which  old  Jolyon  entered  on  the  stroke  of 
seven  was  one  of  those  political  institutions  of  the  upper- 
middle  class  which  have  seen  better  days.  In  spite  of 
being  talked  about,  perhaps  in  consequence  of  being 
talked  about,  it  betrayed  a  disappointing  vitality. 
People  had  grown  tired  of  saying  that  the  "Disunion" 
was  on  its  last  legs.  Old  Jolyon  would  say  it,  too,  yet 
disregarded  the  fact  in  a  manner  truly  irritating  to  well 
constitutioned  Clubmen.  j 

"Why  do  you  keep  your  name  on?"  S within  often 
asked  him  with  profound  vexation.  "Why  don't  you 
join  the  'Polyglot  ?  '  You  can't  get  a  wine  like  our 
Heidsieck  under  twenty  shillin'  a  bottle  anywhere  in 
London";  and,  dropping  his  voice,  he  added:  "There  's 
only  five  thousand  dozen  left.  I  drink  it  every  night 
of  my  life." 

"I  '11  think  of  it, "  old  Jolyon  would  answer;  but  when 
he  did  think  of  it  there  was  always  the  question  of  fifty 


30  The  Man  of  Property 

guineas  entrance  fee,  and  it  would  take  him  four  or  five 
years  to  get  in.  He  continued  to  think  of  it. 

He  was  too  old  to  be  a  Liberal,  had  long  ceased  to 
believe  in  the  political  doctrines  of  his  Club,  had  even 
been  known  to  allude  to  them  as  "  wretched  stuff,"  and 
it  afforded  him  pleasure  to  continue  a  member  in  the 
teeth  of  principles  so  opposed  to  his  own.  He  had  always 
had  a  contempt  for  the  place,  having  joined  it  many 
years  ago  when  they  refused  to  have  him  at  the  "  Hotch 
Potch  "  owing  to  his  being  "  in  trade."  As  if  he  were  not 
as  good  as  any  of  them !  He  naturally  despised  the  Club 
that  did  take  him.  The  members  were  a  poor  lot,  many 
of  them  in  the  City — stockbrokers,  solicitors,  auctioneers, 
what  not !  Like  most  men  of  strong  character  but  not  too 
much  originality,  old  Jolyon  set  small  store  by  the  class 
to  which  he  belonged.  Faithfully  he  followed  their 
customs,  social  and  otherwise,  and  secretly  he  thought 
them  "  a  common  lot." 

Years  and  philosophy,  of  which  he  had  his  share,  had 
dimmed  the  recollection  of  his  defeat  at  the  "  Hotch 
Potch";  and  now  in  his  thoughts  it  was  enshrined  as 
the  Queen  of  Clubs.  He  would  have  been  a  member 
all  these  years  himself,  but,  owing  to  the  slipshod  way 
his  proposer,  Jack  Herring,  had  gone  to  work,  they  had 
not  known  what  they  were  doing  in  keeping  him  out. 
Why!  they  had  taken  his  son  Jo  at  once,  and  he  believed 
the  boy  was  still  a  member;  he  had  received  a  letter 
dated  from  there  eight  years  ago. 

He  had  not  been  near  the  " Disunion"  for  months,  and 
the  house  had  undergone  the  piebald  decoration  which 
people  bestow  on  old  houses  and  old  ships  when  anxious 
to  sell  them. 

"  Beastly  colour,  the  smoking-room! "  he  thought. 
"The  dining-room  is  good."  Its  gloomy  chocolate, 
picked  out  with  light  green,  took  his  fancy. 


Old  Jolyon  Goes  to  the  Opera        31 

He  ordered  dinner,  and  sat  down  in  the  very  corner, 
at  the  very  table  perhaps  (things  did  not  progress  much 
at  the  "  Disunion,"  a  Club  of  almost  Radical  princi- 
ples) at  which  he  and  young  Jolyon  used  to  sit 
twenty-five  years  ago,  when  he  was  taking  the  latter  to 
Drury  Lane,  during  his  holidays. 

The  boy  had  loved  the  theatre,  and  old  Jolyon  re- 
called how  he  used  to  sit  opposite,  concealing  his  ex- 
citement under  a  careful  but  transparent  nonchalance. 

He  ordered  himself,  too,  the  very  dinner  the  boy  had 
always  chosen — soup,  whitebait,  cutlets,  and  a  tart. 
Ah!  if  he  were  only  opposite  now. 

The  two  had  not  met  for  fifteen  years.  And  not  for 
the  first  time  during  those  fifteen  years  old  Jolyon 
wondered  whether  he  had  been  a  little  to  blame  in  the 
matter  of  his  son.  An  unfortunate  love-affair  with 
that  precious  flirt  Danae  Thornworthy,  now  Danae 
Bellew,  Anthony  Thornworthy's  daughter,  had  thrown 
him  on  the  rebound  into  the  arms  of  June's  mother. 
He  ought  perhaps  to  have  put  a  spoke  in  the  wheel  of 
their  marriage;  they  were  too  young;  but  after  that 
experience  of  Jo's  susceptibility  he  had  been  only  too 
anxious  to  see  him  married.  And  in  four  years  the 
crash  had  come!  To  have  approved  his  son's  conduct 
in  that  crash  was,  of  course,  impossible;  reason  and 
training — that  combination  of  potent  factors  which 
stood  for  his  principles — told  him  of  this  impossibility, 
but  his  heart  cried  out.  The  grim  remorselessness  of 
that  business  had  no  pity  for  hearts.  There  was  June, 
the  atom  with  flaming  hair,  who  had  climbed  all  over 
him,  twined  and  twisted  herself  about  him — about  his 
heart  that  was  made  to  be  the  plaything  and  beloved 
resort  of  tiny  helpless  things.  With  characteristic 
insight  he  saw  he  must  part  with  one  or  with  the  other; 
no  half  measures  could  serve  in  such  a  situation.  In  that 


32  The  Man  of  Property 

lay  its  tragedy.  And  the  tiny,  helpless  thing  prevailed. 
He  would  not  run  with  the  hare  and  hunt  with  the 
hounds,  and  so  to  his  son  he  said  good-bye. 

That  good-bye  had  lasted  until  now. 

He  had  proposed  to  continue  a  reduced  allowance  to 
young  Jolyon,  but  this  had  been  refused,  and  perhaps 
that  refusal  had  hurt  him  more  than  anything,  for  with 
it  had  gone  the  last  outlet  of  his  penned-up  affection; 
and  there  had  come  such  tangible  and  solid  proof  of 
rupture  as  only  a  transaction  in  property,  a  bestowal  or 
refusal  of  such,  could  supply. 

His  dinner  tasted  flat.  His  pint  of  champagne  was 
dry  and  bitter  stuff,  not  like  the  Veuve  Clicquot s  of 
old  days. 

Over  his  cup  of  coffee,  he  bethought  him  that  he  would 
go  to  the  opera.  In  the  Times,  therefore — he  had  a 
distrust  of  other  papers, — he  read  the  announcement  for 
the  evening.  It  was  "Fidelio."  Mercifully  not  one  of 
those  new-fangled  German  pantomimes  by  that  fellow 
Wagner. 

Putting  on  his  ancient  opera  hat,  which  with  brim 
flattened  by  use,  and  huge  capacity,  looked  like  an  em- 
blem of  greater  days,  and  pulling  out  an  old  pair  of  very 
thin  lavender  kid  gloves  smelling  strongly  of  Russia 
leather,  from  habitual  proximity  to  the  cigar-case  in 
the  pocket  of  his  overcoat,  he  stepped  into  a  hansom. 

The  cab  rattled  gaily  along  the  streets,  and  old  Jolyon 
was  struck  by  their  unwonted  animation. 

"The  hotels  must  be  doing  a  tremendous  business,"  he 
thought.  A  few  years  ago  there  had  been  none  of  these 
big  hotels.  He  made  a  satisfactory  reflection  on  some 
property  he  had  in  the  neighbourhood.  It  must  be 
going  up  in  value  by  leaps  and  bounds  !  What  traffic  ! 

But  from  that  he  began  indulging  in  one  of  those 
strange  impersonal  speculations,  so  uncharacteristic  of 


Old  Jolyon  Goes  to  the  Opera        33 

a  Forsyte  wherein  lay,  in  part,  the  secret  of  his  su- 
premacy amongst  them.  What  atoms  men  were,  and 
what  a  lot  of  them.  And  what  would  become  of  them 
all? 

He  stumbled  as  he  got  out  of  the  cab,  gave  the  man 
his  exact  fare,  walked  up  to  the  ticket  office  to  take  his 
stall,  and  stood  there  with  his  purse  in  his  hand — he 
always  carried  his  money  in  a  purse,  never  having 
approved  of  that  habit  of  carrying  it  loosely  in  the 
pockets,  as  so  many  young  men  did  nowadays.  The 
official  leaned  out,  like  an  old  dog  from  a  kennel. 

"  Why,"  he  said  in  a  surprised  voice,  "  it 's  Mr.  Jolyon 
Forsyte !  So  it  is !  Have  n't  seen  you,  sir,  for  years.  Dear 
me !  Times  are  n't  what  they  were.  Why !  you  and  your 
brother,  and  that  auctioneer — Mr.  Traquair,  and  Mr. 
Nicholas  Treffry — you  used  to  have  six  or  seven  stalls 
here  regular  every  season.  And  how  are  you,  sir?  We 
don't  get  younger!  " 

The  colour  in  old  Jolyon 's  eyes  deepened;  he  paid  his 
guinea.  They  had  not  forgotten  him.  He  marched  in, 
to  the  sounds  of  the  overture,  like  an  old  war-horse  to 
battle. 

Folding  his  opera  hat,  he  sat  down,  drew  out  his 
lavender  gloves  in  the  old  way,  and  took  up  his  glasses 
for  a  long  look  round  the  house.  Dropping  them  at 
last  on  his  folded  hat,  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  curtain. 
More  poignantly  than  ever  he  felt  that  it  was  all  over  and 
done  with  him.  Where  were  all  the  women,  the  pretty 
women,  the  house  used  to  be  so  full  of?  Where  was 
that  old  feeling  in  the  heart  as  he  waited  for  one  of  those 
great  singers  ?  Where  that  sensation  of  the  intoxication 
of  life  and  of  his  own  power  to  enjoy  it  all? 

The  greatest  opera-goer  of  his  day!  There  was  no 
opera  now!  That  fellow  Wagner  had  ruined  every- 
thing; no  melody  left,  nor  any  voices  to  sing  it.  Ah! 


34  The  Man  of  Property 

the  wonderful  singers!  Gone!  He  sat  watching  the 
old  scenes  acted,  a  numb  feeling  at  his  heart. 

From  the  curl  of  silver  over  his  ear  to  the  pose  of  his 
foot  in  its  elastic-sided  patent  boot,  there  was  nothing 
clumsy  or  weak  about  old  Jolyon.  He  was  as  upright — 
very  nearly — as  in  those  old  times  when  he  came  every 
night;  his  sight  was  as  good — almost  as  good.  But 
what  a  feeling  of  weariness  and  disillusion! 

He  had  been  in  the  habit  all  his  life  of  enjoying  things, 
even  imperfect  things — and  there  had  been  many  im- 
perfect things — he  had  enjoyed  them  all  with  moderation, 
so  as  to  keep  himself  young.  But  now  he  was  deserted 
by  his  power  of  enjoyment,  by  his  philosophy,  and  left 
with  this  dreadful  feeling  that  it  was  all  done  with. 
Not  even  the  Prisoners'  Chorus,  nor  Florian's  Song,  had 
the  power  to  dispel  the  gloom  of  his  loneliness. 

If  Jo  were  only  with  him !  The  boy  must  be  forty  by 
now.  He  had  wasted  fifteen  years  out  of  the  life  of  his 
only  son.  And  Jo  was  no  longer  a  social  pariah.  He 
was  married.  Old  Jolyon  had  been  unable  to  refrain 
from  marking  his  appreciation  of  the  action  by  enclosing 
his  son  a  cheque  for  £500.  The  cheque  had  been  re- 
turned in  a  letter  from  the  "  Hotch  Potch,"  couched  in 
these  words: 

"  MY  DEAREST  FATHER, 

"  Your  generous  gift  was  welcome  as  a  sign  that 
you  might  think  worse  of  me.  I  return  it,  but  should 
you  think  fit  to  invest  it  for  the  benefit  of  the  little  chap 
(we  call  him  Jolly),  who  bears  our  Christian  and,  by 
courtesy,  our  surname,  I  shall  be  very  glad. 

"  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  that  your  health  is  as  good 
as  ever. 

"  Your  loving  son, 

"  Jo." 


Old  Jolyon  Goes  to  the  Opera        35 

The  letter  was  like  the  boy.  He  had  always  been  an 
amiable  chap.  Old  Jolyon  had  sent  this  reply: 

"Mv    DEAR   Jo, 

"  The  sum  (£500)  stands  in  my  books  for  the 
benefit  of  your  boy,  under  the  name  of  Jolyon  Forsyte, 
and  will  be  duly  credited  with  interest  at  five  per  cent.  I 
hope  that  you  are  doing  well.  My  health  remains  good 
at  present. 

"  With  love,  I  am, 
"  Your  affectionate  Father, 
"  JOLYON    FORSYTE." 

And  every  year  on  the  ist  of  January  he  had  added  a 
hundred  and  the  interest.  The  sum  was  mounting  up — 
next  New  Year's  Day  it  would  be  fifteen  hundred  and 
odd  pounds!  And  it  is  difficult  to  say  how  much  satis- 
faction he  had  got  out  of  that  yearly  transaction.  But 
the  correspondence  had  ended. 

In  spite  of  his  love  for  his  son,  in  spite  of  an  instinct, 
partly  constitutional,  partly  the  result,  as  in  thousands 
of  his  class,  of  the  continual  handling  and  watching  of 
affairs,  prompting  him  to  judge  conduct  by  results 
rather  than  by  principle,  there  was  at  the  bottom  of 
his  he^rt  a  sort  of  uneasiness.  His  son  ought,  under  the 
circumstances,  to  have  gone  to  the  dogs;  that  law  was 
laid  down  in  all  the  novels,  sermons,  and  plays  he  had 
ever  read,  heard,  or  witnessed. 

After  receiving  the  cheque  back  there  seemed  to  him 
to  be  something  wrong  somewhere.  Why  had  his  son 
not  gone  to  the  dogs?  But,  then,  who  could  tell? 

He  had  heard,  of  course — in  fact,  he  had  made  it  his 
business  to  find  out — that  Jo  lived  in  St.  John's  Wood, 
that  he  had  a  little  house  in  Wistaria  Avenue  with  a 
garden,  and  took  his  wife  about  with  him  into  society — • 


36  The  Man  of  Property 

a  queer  sort  of  society,  no  doubt — and  that  they  hac 
two  children — the  little  chap  they  called  Jolly  (con- 
sidering the  circumstances  the  name  struck  him  as 
cynical,  and  old  Jolyon  both  feared  and  disliked  cyn- 
icism), and  a  girl  called  Holly,  born  since  the  marriage 
Who  could  tell  what  his  son's  circumstances  really  were! 
He  had  capitalised  the  income  he  had  inherited  fron 
his  mother's  father,  and  joined  Lloyd's  as  an  underwriter 
he  painted  pictures,  too — water-colours.  Old  Jolyor 
knew  this,  for  he  had  surreptitiously  bought  then 
from  time  to  time,  after  chancing  to  see  his  son's  name 
signed  at  the  bottom  of  a  representation  of  the  rivei 
Thames  in  a  dealer's  window.  He  thought  them  bad 
and  did  not  hang  them  because  of  the  signature ;  he  kepi 
them  locked  up  in  a  drawer. 

In  the  great  opera-house  a  terrible  yearning  came  01 
him  to  see  his  son.  He  remembered  the  days  when  h< 
had  been  wont  to  slide  him,  in  a  brown  holland  suit,  t< 
and  fro  under  the  arch  of  his  legs ;  the  times  when  he  rai 
beside  the  boy's  pony,  teaching  him  to  ride;  the  day  hi 
first  took  him  to  school.  He  had  been  a  loving,  lovabl 
little  chap!  After  he  went  to  Eton  he  had  acquired 
perhaps,  a  little  too  much  of  that  desirable  manne 
which  old  Jolyon  knew  was  only  to  be  obtained  at  sue] 
places  and  at  great  expense;  but  he  had  always  beei 
companionable.  Always  a  companion,  even  after  Cam 
bridge — a  little  far  off,  perhaps,  owing  to  the  advantage 
he  had  received.  Old  Jolyon's  feeling  towards  ou 
public  schools  and  'varsities  never  wavered,  and  h 
retained  touchingly  his  attitude  of  admiration  am 
mistrust  towards  a  system  appropriate  to  the  highes 
in  the  land,  of  which  he  had  not  himself  been  privilege! 
to  partake.  .  .  .  Now  that  June  had  gone  and  left,  o 
as  good  as  left  him,  it  would  have  been  a  comfort  to  se 
his  son  again.  Guilty  of  this  treason  to  his  family,  hi 


Old  Jolyon  Goes  to  the  Opera        37 

principles,  his  class,  old  Jolyon  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
singer.  A  poor  thing — a  wretched  poor  thing!  And 
the  Florian  a  perfect  stick ! 

It  was  over.     They  were  easily  pleased  nowadays! 

In  the  crowded  street  he  snapped  up  a  cab  under  the 
very  nose  of  a  stout  and  much  younger  gentleman,  who 
had  already  assumed  it  to  be  his  own.  His  route  lay 
through  Pall  Mall,  and  at  the  corner,  instead  of  going 
through  the  Green  Park,  the  cabman  turned  to  drive 
up  St.  James's  Street.  Old  Jolyon  put  his  hand  through 
the  trap  (he  could  not  bear  being  taken  out  of  his  way) ; 
in  turning,  however,  he  found  himself  opposite  the 
"Hotch  Potch, "  and  the  yearning  that  had  been  secretly 
with  him  the  whole  evening  prevailed.  He  called  to 
the  driver  to  stop.  He  would  go  in  and  ask  if  Jo  still 
belonged  there. 

He  went  in.  The  hall  looked  exactly  as  it  did  when 
he  used  to  dine  there  with  Jack  Herring,  and  they  had 
the  best  cook  in  London;  and  he  looked  round  with  the 
shrewd,  straight  glance  that  had  caused  him  all  his  life 
to  be  better  served  than  most  men. 

"Mr.  Jolyon  Forsyte  still  a  member  here?" 

"Yes,  sir;  in  the  Club  now,  sir.     What  name?  " 

Old  Jolyon  was  taken  aback. 

"His  father,  "he  said. 

And  having  spoken,  he  took  his  stand,  back  to  the 
fireplace. 

Young  Jolyon,  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  Club,  had 
put  on  his  hat,  and  was  in  the  act  of  crossing  the  hall, 
as  the  porter  met  him.  He  was  no  longer  young,  with 
hair  going  grey,  and  face — a  -narrower  replica  of  his 
father's,  with  the  same  large  drooping  moustache — 
decidedly  worn.  He  turned  pale.  This  meeting  was 
terrible  after  all  those  years,  for  nothing  in  the  world 
was  so  terrible  as  a  scene.  They  met  and  crossed  hands 


38  The  Man  of  Property 

without  a  word.  Then,  with  a  quaver  in  his  voice, 
the  father  said: 

"Row  are  you,  my  boy? " 

The  son  answered: 

"How  are  you,  Dad?" 

Old  Jolyon's  hand  trembled  in  its  thin  lavender  glove. 

"If  you  're  going  my  way, "  he  said,  "I  can  give  you  a 
lift." 

And  as  though  in  the  habit  of  taking  each  other  home 
every  night  they  went  out  and  stepped  into  the  cab. 

To  old  Jolyon  it  seemed  that  his  son  had  grown. 
"More  of  a  man  altogether,"  was  his  comment.  Over 
the  natural  amiability  of  that  son's  face  had  come  a 
rather  sardonic  mask,  as  though  he  had  found  in  the 
circumstances  of  his  life  the  necessity  for  armour. 
The  features  were  certainly  those  of  a  Forsyte,  but  the 
expression  was  more  the  introspective  look  of  a  student 
or  philosopher.  He  had  no  doubt  been  obliged  to  look 
into  himself  a  good  deal  in  the  course  of  those  fifteen 
years. 

To  young  Jolyon  the  first  sight  of  his  father  was 
undoubtedly  a  shock — he  looked  so  worn  and  old.  But 
in  the  cab  he  seemed  hardly  to  have  changed,  still  having 
the  calm  look  so  well  remembered,  still  being  upright 
and  keen-eyed. 

"You  look  well,  Dad." 

"Middling,"  old  Jolyon  answered. 

He  was  the  prey  of  an  anxiety  that  he  found  he  must 
put  into  words.  Having  got  his  son  back  like  this, 
he  felt  he  must  know  what  was  his  financial  position. 

"  Jo, "  he  said,  "I  should  like  to  hear  what  sort  of  water 
you're  in.  I  suppose  you  're  in  debt?" 

He  put  it  this  way  that  his  son  might  find  it  easier  to 
confess. 

Young  Jolyon  answered  in  his  ironical  voice: 


Old  Jolyon  Goes  to  the  Opera        39 

"No!     I'm  not  in  debt!" 

Old  Jolyon  saw  that  he  was  angry,  and  touched  his 
hand.  He  had  run  a  risk.  It  was  worth  it,  however, 
and  Jo  had  never  been  sulky  with  him.  They  drove  on, 
without  speaking  again,  to  Stanhope  Gate.  Old  Jolyon 
invited  him  in,  but  young  Jolyon  shook  his  head. 

"June  's  not  here,"  said  his  father  hastily:  "went  off 
to-day  on  a  visit.  I  suppose  you  know  that  she 's 
engaged  to  be  married?  " 

"Already?  "  murmured  young  Jolyon. 

Old  Jolyon  stepped  out,  and,  in  paying  the  cab  fare, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  gave  the  driver  a  sovereign  in 
mistake  for  a  shilling. 

Placing  the  coin  in  his  mouth,  the  cabman  secretly 
whipped  his  horse  and  hurried  away. 

Old  Jolyon  turned  the  key  softly  in  the  lock,  pushed 
open  the  door,  and  beckoned.  His  son  saw  him  gravely 
hanging  up  his  coat,  with  an  expression  on  his  face  like 
that  of  a  boy  who  intends  to  steal  cherries. 

The  door  of  the  dining-room  was  open,  the  gas  turned 
low;  a  spirit-urn  hissed  on  a  tea-tray,  and  close  to  it  a 
cynical-looking  cat  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  dining-table. 
Old  Jolyon  "shoo'd"  her  off  at  once.  The  incident  was 
a  relief  to  his  feelings ;  he  rattled  his  opera  hat  behind  the 
animal. 

"She  'sgot  fleas,"  he  said,  following  her  out  of  the  room. 
Through  the  door  in  the  hall  leading  to  the  basement 
he  called  "Hssst! "  several  times,  as  though  assisting  the 
cat's  departure,  till  by  some  strange  coincidence  the 
butler  appeared  below. 

"You  can  go  to  bed,  Parfitt,"  said  old  Jolyon.  "  I  will 
lock  up  and  put  out." 

When  he  again  entered  the  dining-room  the  cat 
unfortunately  preceded  him,  with  her  tail  in  the  air, 
proclaiming  that  she  had  seen  through  this  manoeuvre 
for  suppressing  the  butler  from  the  first. 


40  The  Man  of  Property 

A  fatality  had  dogged  old  Jolyon's  domestic  strata- 
gems all  his  life. 

Young  Jolyon  could  not  help  smiling.  He  was  very 
well  versed  in  irony,  and  everything  that  evening  seemed 
to  him  ironical.  The  episode  of  the  cat;  the  announce- 
ment of  his  own  daughter's  engagement.  So  he  had  no 
more  part  or  parcel  in  her  than  he  had  in  the  Puss! 
And  the  poetical  justice  of  this  appealed  to  him. 

"  What  is  June  like  now?  "  he  asked. 

"  She  's  a  little  thing,"  returned  old  Jolyon;  "  they  say 
she  's  like  me,  but  that 's  their  folly.  She  's  more  like 
your  mother  — the  same  eyes  and  hair." 

"Ah!  and  she  is  pretty?  " 

Old  Jolyon  was  too  much  of  a  Forsyte  to  praise 
anything  freely;  especially  anything  for  which  he  had  a 
genuine  admiration. 

"Not  bad  looking — a  regular  Forsyte  chin.  It  '11  be 
lonely  here  when  she  's  gone,  Jo." 

The  look  on  his  face  again  gave  young  Jolyon  the 
shock  he  had  felt  on  first  seeing  his  father. 

"What  will  you  do  with  yourself,  Dad?  I  suppose 
she  's  wrapped  up  in  him?  " 

"  Do  with  myself? "  repeated  old  Jolyon  with  an  angry- 
break  in  his  voice.  "  It  '11  be  miserable  work  living 
here  alone.  I  don't  know  how  it 's  to  end.  I  wish  to 

goodness "  He  checked  himself,  and  added:  "The 

question  is,  what  had  I  better  do  with  this  house?  " 

Young  Jolyon  looked  round  the  room.  It  was  pe- 
culiarly vast  and  dreary,  decorated  with  the  enormous 
pictures  of  still  life  that  he  remembered  as  a  boy — sleep- 
ing dogs  with  their  noses  resting  on  bunches  of  carrots, 
together  with  onions  and  grapes  lying  side  by  side  in 
mild  surprise.  The  house  was  a  white  elephant,  but  he 
could  not  conceive  of  his  father  living  in  a  smaller  place; 
and  all  the  more  did  it  all  seem  ironical. 


Old  Jolyon  Goes  to  the  Opera       41 

In  his  great  chair  with  the  book-rest  sat  old  Jolyon, 
the  figure-head  of  his  family  and  class  and  creed — with 
his  white  head  and  dome-like  forehead,  the  representative 
of  moderation,  and  order,  and  love  of  property.  As 
lonely  an  old  man  as  there  was  in  London. 

There  he  sat  iri  the  gloomy  comfort  of  the  room,  a 
puppet  in  the  power  of  great  forces  that  cared  nothing 
for  family  or  class  or  creed,  but  moved,  machine-like, 
with  dread  processes  to  inscrutable  ends.  This  was 
how  it  struck  young  Jolyon,  who  had  the  impersonal 
eye. 

The  poor  old  Dad !  So  this  was  the  end,  the  purpose  to 
which  he  had  lived  with  such  magnificent  moderation! 
To  be  lonely,  and  grow  older  and  older,  yearning  for  a 
soul  to  speak  to! 

In  his  turn  old  Jolyon  looked  back  at  his  son.  He 
wanted  to  talk  about  many  things  that  he  had  been 
unable  to  talk  about  all  these  years.  It  had  been  im- 
possible seriously  to  confide  to  June  his  conviction  that 
property  in  the  Soho  quarter  would  go  up  in  value; 
his  uneasiness  about  that  tremendous  silence  of  Pippin, 
the  superintendent  of  the  New  Colliery  Company,  of 
which  he  had  so  long  been  chairman;  his  disgust  at  the 
steady  fall  in  American  Golgothas,  or  even  to  discuss 
how,  by  some  sort  of  settlement,  he  could  best  avoid 
the  payment  of  those  death  duties  which  would  follow 
his  decease.  Under  the  influence,  however,  of  a  cup  of 
tea,  which  he  seemed  to  stir  indefinitely,  he  began  to 
speak  at  last.  A  new  vista  of  life  was  thus  opened 
up,  a  promised  land  of  talk,  where  he  could  find  a  harbour 
against  the  waves  of  anticipation  and  regret;  where  he 
could  soothe  his  soul  with  the  opium  of  devising  how  to 
round  off  his  property  and  make  eternal  the  only  part 
of  him  that  was  to  remain  alive. 

Young  Jolyon  was  a  good  listener;  it  was  his  great 


42  The  Man  of  Property 

quality.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  father's  face, 
putting  a  question  now  and  then. 

The  clock  struck  one  before  old  Jolyon  had  fin- 
ished, and  at  the  sound  of  its  striking  his  principles 
came  back.  He  took  out  his  watch  with  a  look  of 
surprise: 

"I  must  go  to  bed,  Jo,"  he  said. 

Young  Jolyon  rose  and  held  out  his  hand  to  help  his 
father  up.  The  old  face  looked  worn  and  hollow  again; 
the  eyes  were  steadily  averted. 

"Good-bye,  my  boy;  take  care  of  yourself." 

A  moment  passed,  and  young  Jolyon,  turning  on  his 
heel,  marched  out  at  the  door.  He  could  hardly  see; 
his  smile  quavered.  Never  in  all  the  fifteen  years  since 
he  had  first  found  out  that  life  was  no  simple  business, 
had  he  found  it  so  singularly  complicated. 


CHAPTER  III 

DINNER  AT  SWITHIN*S 

IN  Swithin's  orange  and  light-blue  dining-room,  facing 
the  Park,  the  round  table  was  laid  for  twelve. 

A  cut-glass  chandelier  filled  with  lighted  candles 
hung  like  a  giant  stalactite  above  its  centre,  radiating 
over  large  gilt-framed  mirrors,  slabs  of  marble  on  the 
tops  of  side-tables,  and  heavy  gold  chairs  with  crewel 
worked  seats.  Everything  betokened  that  love  of 
beauty  so  deeply  implanted  in  each  family  which  has 
had  its  own  way  to  make  into  Society,  out  of  the  more 
vulgar  heart  of  Nature.  S within  had  indeed  an  im- 
patience of  simplicity,  a  love  of  ormolu,  which  had 
always  stamped  him  amongst  his  associates  as  a  man 
of  great,  if  somewhat  luxurious  taste;  and  out  of  the 
knowledge  that  no  one  could  possibly  enter  his  rooms 
without  perceiving  him  to  be  a  man  of  wealth,  he  had 
derived  a  solid  and  prolonged  happiness  such  as  perhaps 
no  other  circumstance  in  life  had  afforded  him. 

Since  his  retirement  from  house  agency,  a  profession 
deplorable  in  his  estimation,  especially  as  to  its  auction- 
eering department,  he  had  abandoned  himself  to  natur- 
ally aristocratic  tastes. 

The  perfect  luxury  of  his  latter  days  had  embedded 
him  like  a  fly  in  sugar;  and  his  mind,  where  very  little 
took  place  from  morning  till  night,  was  the  junction  of 
two  curiously  opposite  emotions,  a  lingering  and  sturdy 

43  •; 


44  The  Man  of  Property 

satisfaction  that  he  had  made  his  own  way  and  his  own 
fortune,  and  a  sense  that  a  man  of  his  distinction  should 
never  have  been  allowed  to  soil  his  mind  with  work. 

He  stood  at  the  sideboard  in  a  white  waistcoat  with 
large  gold  and  onyx  buttons,  watching  his  valet  screw 
the  necks  of  three  champagne  bottles  deeper  into  ice 
pails.  Between  the  points  of  his  stand-up  collar,  which 
— though  it  hurt  him  to  move — he  would  on  no  account 
have  had  altered,  the  pale  flesh  of  his  underchin  remained 
immovable.  His  eyes  roved  from  bottle  to  bottle.  He 
was  debating,  and  he  argued  like  this:  "  Jolyon  drinks 
a  glass,  perhaps  two,  he  's  so  careful  of  himself.  James, 
he  can't  take  his  wine  nowadays.  Nicholas — Fanny 
and  he  would  swill  water  he  should  n'  t  wonder!  Soames 
did  n't  count;  these  young  nephews — Soames  was 
thirty-eight — couldn't  drink!  But  Bosinney?"  En- 
countering in  the  name  of  this  stranger  something 
outside  the  range  of  his  philosophy,  Swithin  paused. 
A  misgiving  arose  within  him!  It  was  impossible  to  tell! 
June  was  only  a  girl,  in  love  too!  Emily  (Mrs.  James), 
liked  a  good  glass  of  champagne.  It  was  too  dry  for 
Juley;  poor  old  soul,  she  had  no  palate.  As  to  Hatty 
Chessman!  The  thought  of  this  old  friend  caused  a 
cloud  of  thought  to  obscure  the  perfect  glassiness  of  his 
eyes  :  He  should  n' t  wonder  if  she  drank  half  a  bottle ! 

But  in  thinking  of  his  remaining  guest,  an  expression 
like  that  of  a  cat  who  is  just  going  to  purr  stole  over  his 
old  face:  Mrs.  Soames!  She  might  n' t  take  much,  but  she 
would  appreciate  what  she  drank;  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
give  her  good  wine !  A  pretty  woman — and  sympathetic 
to  him! 

The  thought  of  her  was  like  champagne  itself !  A 
pleasure  to  give  a  good  wine  to  a  young  woman  who 
looked  so  well,  who  knew  how  to  dress,  with  charming 
manners,  quite  distinguished — a  pleasure  to  entertain 


Dinner  at  Swithin's  45 

her.  Between  the  points  of  his  collar  he  gave  his  head 
the  first  small,  painful  oscillation  of  the  evening. 

"  Adolf,  "  he  said,  "put  in  another  bottle." 

He  himself  might  drink  a  good  deal,  for,  thanks  to 
that  p — prescription  of  Blight's,  he  found  himself 
extremely  well,  and  he  had  been  careful  to  take  no  lunch. 
He  had  not  felt  so  well  for  weeks.  Puffing  out  his  lower 
lip,  he  gave  his  last  instructions : 

"Adolf,  the  least  touch  of  the  West  India  when  you 
come  to  the  ham." 

Passing  into  the  anteroom,  he  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  a  chair,  with  his  knees  apart ;  and  his  tall,  bulky  form 
was  wrapped  at  once  in  an  expectant,  strange,  primeval 
immobility.  He  was  ready  to  rise  at  a  moment's  notice. 
He  had  not  given  a  dinner-party  for  months.  This 
dinner  in  honour  of  June's  engagement  had  seemed  a 
bore  at  first  (among  Forsytes  the  custom  of  solemnising 
engagements  by  feasts  was  religiously  observed) ,  but  the 
labours  of  sending  invitations  and  ordering  the  repast 
over,  he  felt  pleasantly  stimulated. 

And  thus  sitting,  a  watch  in  his  hand,  fat,  and  smooth, 
and  golden,  like  a  flattened  globe  of  butter,  he  thought 
of  nothing. 

A  long  man,  with  side  whiskers,  who  had  once  been 
in  Swithin's  service,  but  was  now  a  greengrocer,  entered 
and  proclaimed: 

"  Mrs.  Chessman,  Mrs.  Septimus  Small!" 

Two  ladies  advanced.  The  one  in  front,  habited 
entirely  in  red,  had  large  settled  patches  of  the  same 
colour  in  her  cheeks,  and  a  hard,  dashing  eye.  She 
walked  at  S within,  holding  out  a  hand  cased  in  a  long, 
primrose-coloured  glove: 

"Well,  Swithin,"  she  said,  "I  haven't  seen  you  for 
ages.  How  are  you?  Why,  my  dear  boy,  how  stout 
you  're  getting  1 " 


46  The  Man  of  Property 

The  fixity  of  Swithin's  eye  alone  betrayed  emotion. 
A  dumb  and  grumbling  anger  swelled  his  bosom.  It 
was  vulgar  to  be  stout,  to  talk  of  being  stout ;  he  had  a 
chest,  nothing  more.  Turning  to  his  sister,  he  grasped 
her  hand,  and  said  in  a  tone  of  command: 

"Well,  Juley." 

Mrs.  Septimus  Small  was  the  tallest  of  the  four  sisters; 
her  good,  round  old  face  had  gone  a  little  sour;  an  innu- 
merable pout  clung  all  over  it,  as  if  it  had  been  encased 
in  an  iron  wire  mask  up  to  that  evening,  which,  being 
suddenly  removed,  left  little  rolls  of  mutinous  flesh  all 
over  her  countenance.  Even  her  eyes  were  pouting. 
It  was  thus  that  she  recorded  her  permanent  resentment 
at  the  loss  of  Septimus  Small. 

She  had  quite  a  reputation  for  saying  the  wrong  thing, 
and,  tenacious  like  all  her  breed,  she  would  hold  to  it 
when  she  had  said  it,  and  add  to  it  another  wrong  thing, 
and  so  on.  With  the  decease  of  her  husband  the  family 
tenacity,  the  family  matter-of-factness,  had  gone  sterile 
within  her.  A  great  talker,  when  allowed,  she  would 
converse  without  the  faintest  animation  for  hours 
together,  relating,  with  epic  monotony,  the  innumerable 
occasions  on  which  Fortune  had  misused  her ;  nor  did  she 
ever  perceive  that  her  hearers  sympathised  with  Fortune, 
for  her  heart  was  kind. 

Having  sat,  poor  soul,  long  by  the  bedside  of  Small 
(a  man  of  poor  constitution),  she  had  acquired  the 
habit,  and  there  were  countless  subsequent  occasions 
when  she  had  sat  immense  periods  of  time  to  amuse  sick 
people,  children,  and  other  helpless  persons,  and  she 
could  never  divest  herself  of  the  feeling  that  the  world 
was  the  most  ungrateful  place  anybody  could  live  in. 
Sunday  after  Sunday  she  sat  at  the  feet  of  that  extremely 
witty  preacher  the  Rev.  Thomas  Scoles,  who  exercised 
a  great  influence  over  her;  but  she  succeeded  in  con  vino 


Dinner  at  Swithin's  47 

ing  everybody  that  even  this  was  a  misfortune.  She 
had  passed  into  a  proverb  in  the  family,  and  when  any- 
body was  observed  to  be  peculiarly  distressing,  he  was 
known  as  "a  regular  Juley."  The  habit  of  her  mind 
would  have  killed  anybody  but  a  Forsyte  at  forty;  but 
she  was  seventy-four,  and  had  never  looked  better. 
And  one  felt  that  there  were  capacities  for  enjoyment 
about  her  which  might  yet  come  out.  She  owned  three 
canaries,  the  cat  Tommy,  and  half  a  parrot — in  common 
with  her  sister  Hester;  and  these  poor  creatures  (kept 
carefully  out  of  Timothy's  way — he  was  nervous  about 
animals) ,  unlike  human  beings,  recognising  that  she  could 
not  help  being  blighted,  attached  themselves  to  her 
passionately. 

She  was  sombrely  magnificent  this  evening  in  black 
bombazine,  with  a  mauve  front  cut  in  a  shy  triangle,  and 
crowned  with  a  black  velvet  ribbon  round  the  base  of  her 
thin  throat;  black  and  mauve  for  evening  wear  was 
esteemed  very  chaste  by  nearly  every  Forsyte. 

Pouting  at  Swithin  she  said  : 

"Ann  has  been  asking  for  you.  You  haven't  been 
near  us  for  an  age!  " 

Swithin  put  his  thumbs  within  the  armholes  of  his 
waistcoat,  and  replied: 

"Ann's  getting  very  shaky;  she  ought  to  have  a 
doctor!  " 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nicholas  Forsyte!  " 

Nicholas  Forsyte,  cocking  his  rectangular  eyebrows, 
wore  a  smile.  He  had  succeeded  during  the  day  in 
bringing  to  fruition  a  scheme  for  the  employment  of  a 
tribe  from  Upper  India  in  the  gold-mines  of  Ceylon. 
A  pet  plan,  carried  at  last  in  the  teeth  of  great  difficulties 
• — he  was  justly  pleased.  It  would  double  the  output 
of  his  mines,  and,  as  he  had  often  forcibly  argued,  all 
experience  tended  to  show  that  a  man  must  die;  and 


48  The  Man  of  Property ' 

whether  he  died  of  a  miserable  old  age  in  his  own  country, 
or  prematurely  of  damp  in  the  bottom  of  a  foreign  mine, 
was  surely  of  little  consequence,  provided  that  by  a 
change  in  his  mode  of  life  he  benefited  the  British  Empire. 

His  ability  was  undoubted.  Raising  his  broken  nose 
towards  his  listener,  he  would  add: 

"  For  want  of  a  few  hundred  of  these  fellows  we  have  n't 
paid  a  dividend  for  years,  and  look  at  the  price  of  the 
shares.  I  can't  get  ten  shillin's  for  them." 

He  had  been  at  Yarmouth,  too,  and  had  come  back 
feeling  that  he  had  added  at  least  ten  years  to  his  own 
life.  He  grasped  Swithin's  hand,  exclaiming  in  a 
jocular  voice: 

"Well,  so  here  we  are  again!  " 

Mrs.  Nicholas,  an  effete  woman,  smiled  a  smile  of 
frightened  jollity  behind  his  back. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Forsyte!  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Soames 
Forsyte!  " 

S within  drew  his  heels  together,  his  deportment  ever 
admirable. 

"Well,  James,  well,  Emily!  How  are  you,  Soames? 
How  do  you  do  ?  " 

His  hand  enclosed  Irene's,  and  his  eyes  swelled.  She 
was  a  pretty  woman — a  little  too  pale,  but  her  figure,  her 
eyes,  her  teeth!  Too  good  for  that  chap  Soames! 

The  gods  had  given  Irene  dark  brown  eyes  and  golden 
hair,  that  strange  combination,  provocative  of  men's 
glances,  which  is  said  to  be  the  mark  of  a  weak  character. 
And  the  full,  soft  pallor  of  her  neck  and  shoulders,  above 
a  gold-coloured  frock,  gave  to  her  personality  an  alluring 
strangeness. 

Soames  stood  behind,  his  eyes  fastened  on  his  wife's 
neck.  The  hands  of  Swithin's  watch,  which  he  still  held 
open  in  his  hand,  had  left  eight  behind;  it  was  half  an 
hour  beyond  his  dinner-time — he  had  had  no  lunch— 


Dinner  at  Swithin's  49 

and  a  strange  primeval  impatience  surged  up  within 
him. 

"  It 's  not  like  Jolyon  to  be  late! "  he  said  to  Irene,  with 
uncontrollable  vexation.  "I  suppose  it'll  be  June 
keeping  him  !  " 

"People  in  love  are  always  late, "  she  answered. 

Swithin  stared  at  her ;  a  dusky  orange  dyed  his  cheeks. 
"  They  've  no  business  to  be.  Some  fashionable  non- 
sense! " 

And  behind  this  outburst  the  inarticulate  violence  of 
primitive  generations  seemed  to  mutter  and  grumble. 

"Tell  me  what  you  think  of  my  new  star,  Uncle 
Swithin, "  said  Irene  softly. 

Among  the  lace  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress  was  shining 
a  five-pointed  star,  made  of  eleven  diamonds. 

Swithin  looked  at  the  star.  He  had  a  pretty  taste  in 
stones;  no  question  could  have  been  more  sympatheti- 
cally devised  to  distract  his  attention. 

"Who  gave  you  that?"  he  asked. 

"Soames." 

There  was  no  change  in  her  face,  but  Swithin's  pale 
eyes  bulged  as  though  he  might  suddenly  have  been 
afflicted  with  insight. 

"I  dare  say  you  're  dull  at  home,"  he  said.  "Any 
day  you  like  to  come  and  dine  with  me  I  '11  give  you  as 
good  a  bottle  of  wine  as  you  '11  get  in  London." 

"Miss  June  Forsyte — Mr.  Jolyon  Forsyte!  .  .  .  Mr. 
Bo-swainey!  ..." 

Swithin  moved  his  arm,  and  said  in  a  rumbling  voice: 

"Dinner,  now — dinner!  " 

He  took  in  Irene,  on  the  ground  that  he  had  not 
entertained  her  since  she  was  a  bride.  June  was  the 
portion  of  Bosinney,  who  was  placed  between  Irene  and 
his  fiancee.  On  the  other  side  of  June  was  James  with 
Mrs.  Nicholas,  then  old  Jolyon  with  Mrs.  James,  Nicholas 


50  The  Man  of  Property 

with  Hatty  Chessman,  Soames  with  Mrs.  Small,  com- 
pleting the  circle  to  Swithin  again. 

Family  dinners  of  the  Forsytes  observe  certain  tra- 
ditions. There  are,  for  instance,  no  hors  d'  ceuvres. 
The  reason  for  this  is  unknown.  Theory  among  the 
younger  members  traces  it  to  the  disgraceful  price  of 
oysters;  it  is  more  probably  due  to  a  desire  to  come  to 
the  point,  to  a  good  practical  sense  deciding  at  once  that 
hors  d'  ceuvres  are  but  poor  things.  The  Jameses  alone, 
unable  to  withstand  a  custom  almost  universal  in  Park 
Lane,  are  now  and  then  unfaithful. 

A  silent,  almost  morose,  inattention  to  each  other 
succeeds  to  the  subsidence  into  their  seats,  lasting  till 
well  into  the  first  entree,  but  interspersed  with  remarks 
such  as,  " Tom's  bad  again;  I  can't  tell  what's  the  matter 
with  him! " — "I  suppose  Ann  does  n't  come  down  in  the 
mornings?" — "What 's  the  name  of 'your  doctor,  Fanny? 
Stubbs?  He's  a  quack!" — "Winifred?  She's  got  too 
many  children.  Four,  is  n't  it  ?  She  's  as  thin  as  a  lath! " 
— "What  d'  you  give  for  this  sherry,  Swithin?  Too  dry 
for  me!" 

With  a  second  glass  of  champagne,  a  kind  of  hum 
makes  itself  heard,  which,  when  divested  of  casual 
accessories  and  resolved  into  its  primal  element,  is  found 
to  be  James  telling  a  story,  and  this  goes  on  for  a  long 
time,  encroaching  sometimes  even  upon  what  must 
universally  be  recognised  as  the  crowning  point  of  a 
Forsyte  feast — "the  saddle  of  mutton." 

No  Forsyte  has  given  a  dinner  without  providing  a 
saddle  of  mutton.  There  is  something  in  its  succulent 
solidity  which  makes  it  suitable  to  people  "of  a  cer- 
tain position."  It  is  nourishing  and — tasty;  the  sort  of 
thing  a  man  remembers  eating.  It  has  a  past  and  a 
future,  like  a  deposit  paid  into  a  bank;  and  it  is  something 
that  can  be  argued  about. 


Dinner  at  Swithin's  51 

Each  branch  of  the  family  tenaciously  held  to  a  particu- 
lar locality — old  Jolyon  swearing  by  Dartmoor,  James  by 
Welsh,  Swithin  by  Southdown,  Nicholas  maintaining 
that  people  might  sneer,  but  there  was  nothing  like 
New  Zealand.  As  for  Roger,  the  "original"  of  the 
brothers,  he  had  been  obliged  to  invent  a  locality  of  his 
own,  and  with  an  ingenuity  worthy  of  a  man  who  had 
devised  a  new  profession  for  his  sons,  he  had  discovered 
a  shop  where  they  sold  German;  on  being  remonstrated 
with,  he  had  proved  his  point  by  producing  a  butcher's 
bill,  which  showed  that  he  paid  more  than  any  of  the 
others.  It  was  on  this  occasion  that  old  Jolyon,  turning 
to  June,  had  said  in  one  of  his  bursts  of  philosophy: 

"You  may  depend  upon  it,  they  're  a  cranky  lot,  the 
Forsytes — and  you  11  find  it  out,  as  you  grow  older!  " 

Timothy  alone  held  apart,  for,  though  he  ate  saddle 
of  mutton  heartily,  he  was,  he  said,  afraid  of  it. 

To  any  one  interested  psychologically  in  Forsytes, 
this  great  saddle-of-mutton  trait  is  of  prime  importance; 
not  only  does  it  illustrate  their  tenacity,  both  collectively 
and  as  individuals,  but  it  marks  them  as  belonging  in 
fibre  and  instincts  to  that  great  class  which  believes  in 
nourishment  and  flavour,  and  yields  to  no  sentimental 
craving  for  beauty. 

Younger  members  of  the  family  indeed  would  have 
done  without  a  joint  altogether,  preferring  guinea-fowl, 
or  lobster  salad — something  which  appealed  to  the 
imagination,  and  had  less  nourishment — but  these  were 
females;  or,  if  not,  had  been  corrupted  by  their  wives, 
or  by  mothers,  who,  having  been  forced  to  eat  saddle  of 
mutton  throughout  their  married  lives,  had  passed  a 
secret  hostility  towards  it  into  the  fibre  of  their  sons. 

The  great  saddle-of-mutton  controversy  at  an  end,  a 
Tewkesbury  ham  commenced,  together  with  the  least 
touch  of  West  India — Swithin  was  so  long  over  this 


52  The  Man  of  Property 

course  that  he  caused  a  block  in  the  progress  of  the 
dinner.  To  devote  himself  to  it  with  better  heart,  he 
paused  in  his  conversation. 

From  his  seat  by  Mrs.  Septimus  Small,  Soames  was 
watching.  He  had  a  reason  of  his  own,  connected  with  a 
pet  building  scheme,  for  observing  Bosinney.  The 
architect  might  do  for  his  purpose;  he  looked  clever,  as 
he  sat  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  moodily  making  little 
ramparts  with  bread-crumbs.  Soames  noted  his  dress 
clothes  to  be  well  cut,  but  too  small,  as  though  made 
many  years  ago. 

He  saw  him  turn  to  Irene  and  say  something,  and  her 
face  sparkle  as  he  often  saw  it  sparkle  at  other  people — 
never  at  himself.  He  tried  to  catch  what  they  were 
saying,  but  Aunt  Juley  was  speaking. 

Had  n't  that  always  seemed  very  extraordinary  to 
Soames  ?  Only  last  Sunday  dear  Mr.  Scoles  had  been  so 
witty  in  his  sermon,  so  sarcastic:  "For  what,'  he  had 
said,  'shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  his  own  soul,  but 
lose  all  his  property?"  That,  he  had  said,  was  the 
motto  of  the  middle  class;  now,  what  had  he  meant  by 
that?  Of  course,  it  might  be  what  middle-class  people 
believed — she  did  n't  know;  what  did  Soames  think? 

He  answered  abstractedly:  "How  should  I  know? 
Scoles  is  a  humbug,  though,  is  n't  he?  "  For  Bosinney 
was  looking  round  the  table,  as  if  pointing  out  the 
peculiarities  of  the  guests,  and  Soames  wondered  what 
he  was  saying.  By  her  smile  Irene  was  evidently 
agreeing  with  his  remarks.  She  seemed  always  to  agree 
with  other  people. 

Her  eyes  were  turned  on  himself;  Soames  dropped 
his  glance  at  once.  The  smile  had  died  off  her  lips. 

A  humbug?  But  what  did  Soames  mean?  If  Mr. 
Scoles  was  a  humbug,  a  clergyman — then  anybody 
might  be — it  was  frightful ! 


Dinner  at  Swithin's  53 

t     "Well,  and  so  they  are!"  said  Soames. 
1      During  Aunt  Juley's  momentary  and  horrified   silence 
he  caught  some  words  of  Irene's  that  sounded  like: 
"Abandon  hope,  all  ye  who  enter  here!" 
.      But  Swithin  had  finished  his  ham. 
f      "Where  do  you  go  for  your  mushrooms?"  he  was 
saying  to  Irene  in  a  voice  like  a  courtier's;  "you  ought 
to  go  to  Snileybob's — he  '11  give  'em  you  fresh.     These 
little  men,  they  won't  take  the  trouble!  " 

Irene  turned  to  answer  him,  and  Soames  saw  Bosinney 
watching  her  and  smiling  to  himself.  A  curious  smile 
the  fellow  had.  A  half -simple  arrangement,  like  a  child 
who  smiles  when  he  is  pleased.  As  for  George's  nickname 
— "The  Buccaneer" — he  did  not  think  much  of  that, 
And,  seeing  Bosinney  turn  to  June,  Soames  smiled  too, 
but  sardonically — he  did  not  like  June,  who  was  not 
looking  too  pleased. 

This  was  not  surprising,  for  she  had  just  held  the 
following  conversation  with  James  : 

"I  stayed  on  the  river  on  my  way  home,  Uncle  James, 
and  saw  a  beautiful  site  for  a  house." 

James,  a  slow  and  thorough  eater,  stopped  the  process 
of  mastication. 

"Eh? "  he  said.     "Now,  where  was  that?  " 

"Close  to  Pangbourne." 

James  placed  a  piece  of  hairi  in  his  mouth,  and  June 
waited. 

"I  suppose  you  wouldn't  know  whether  the  land 
about  there  was  freehold?"  he  asked  at  last.  "  You 
would  n't  know  anything  about  the  price  of  land  about 
there?" 

"Yes,"  said  June;  "I  made  inquiries."     Her  little 
resolute   face  under  its  copper  crown  was  suspiciously 
and  aglow. 

James  regarded  her  with  the  air  of  an  inquisitor. 


54  The  Man  of  Property 

"What?  You're  not  thinking  of  buying  land! " 
he  ejaculated,  dropping  his  fork. 

June  was  greatly  encouraged  by  his  interest.  It  had 
long  been  her  pet  plan  that  her  uncles  should  benefit 
themselves  and  Bosinney  by  building  country-houses. 

"Of  course  not,"  she  said.  "I  thought  it  would  be 
such  a  splendid  place  for — you  or — some  one  to  build  a 
country-house ! ' ' 

James  looked  at  her  sideways,  and  placed  a  second 
piece  of  ham  in  his  mouth. 

"Land  ought  to  be  very  dear  about  there, "  he  said. 

What  June  had  taken  for  personal  interest  was  only 
the  impersonal  excitement  of  every  Forsyte  who  hears 
of  something  eligible  in  danger  of  passing  into  other 
hands.  But  she  refused  to  see  the  disappearance  of  her 
chance,  and  continued  to  press  her  point. 

"You  ought  to  go  into  the  country,  Uncle  James. 
I  wish  I  had  a  lot  of  money,  I  would  n't  live  another 
day  in  London." 

James  was  stirred  to  the  depths  of  his  long  thin  figure ; 
he  had  no  idea  his  niece  held  such  downright  views. 

"Why  don't  you  go  into  the  country?"  repeated  June: 
"it  would  do  you  a  lot  of  good." 

"Why?"  began  James  in  a  fluster.  "Buying  land — 
what  good  d'  you  suppose  I  can  do  buying  land, 
building  houses? — I  could  n't  get  four  per  cent,  for  my 
money!" 

"What  does  that  matter?     You  'd  get  fresh  air." 

"Fresh  air!"  exclaimed  James;  "what  should  I  do 
with  fresh  air " 

"I  should  have  thought  anybody  liked  to  have  fresh 
air,"  said  June  scornfully. 

James  wiped  his  napkin  all  over  his  mouth. 

"You  don't  know  the  value  of  money,"  he  said, 
avoiding  her  eye. 


Dinner  at  Swithin's  55 

"No!  and  I  hope  I  never  shall!"  and,  biting  her  lip 
with  inexpressible  mortification,  poor  June  was  silent. 

Why  were  her  own  relations  so  rich,  and  Phil  never 
knew  where  the  money  was  coming  from  for  to-morrow's 
tobacco?  Why  couldn't  they  do  something  for  him? 
But  they  were  so  selfish.  Why  could  n't  they  build 
country-houses?  She  had  all  that  naive  dogmatism 
which  is  so  pathetic,  and  sometimes  achieves  such  great 
results.  Bosinney,  to  whom  she  turned  in  her  dis- 
comfiture, was  talking  to  Irene,  and  a  chill  fell  on  June's 
spirit.  Her  eyes  grew  steady  with  anger,  like  old 
Jolyon's  when  his  will  was  crossed. 

James,  too,  was  much  disturbed.  He  felt  as  though 
some  one  had  threatened  his  right  to  invest  his  money 
at  five  per  cent.  Jolyon  had  spoiled  her.  None  of  his 
girls  would  have  said  such  a  thing.  James  had  always 
been  exceedingly  liberal  to  his  children,  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  this  made  him  feel  it  all  the  more  deeply. 
He  trifled  moodily  with  his  strawberries,  then,  deluging 
them  with  cream,  he  ate  them  quickly;  they,  at  all  events, 
should  not  escape  him. 

No  wonder  he  was  upset.  Engaged  for  fifty-four 
years  (he  had  been  admitted  a  solicitor  on  the  earliest 
day  sanctioned  by  the  law)  in  arranging  mortgages 
preserving  investments  at  a  dead  level  of  high  and  safe 
interest,  conducting  negotiations  on  the  principle  of 
securing  the  utmost  possible  out  of  other  people  com- 
patible with  safety  to  his  clients  and  himself,  in  calcula- 
tions as  to  the  exact  pecuniary  possibilities  of  all  the 
relations  of  life,  he  had  come  at  last  to  think  purely  in 
terms  of  money.  Money  was  now  his  light,  his  medium 
for  seeing,  that  without  which  he  was  really  unable  to 
see,  really  not  cognisant  of  phenomena;  and  to  have  this 
thing,  "I  hope  I  shall  never  know  the  value  of  money!  " 
said  to  his  face,  saddened  and  exasperated  him.  He 


56  The  Man  of  Property 

knew  it  to  be  nonsense,  or  it  would  have  frightened 
him.  What  was  the  world  coming  to!  Suddenly  recol- 
lecting the  story  of  young  Jolyon,  however,  he  felt  a 
little  comforted,  for  what  could  you  expect  with  a  father 
like  that!  This  turned  his  thoughts  into  a  channel  still 
less  pleasant.  What  was  all  this  talk  about  Soames 
and  Irene? 

As  in  all  self-respecting  families,  an  emporium  had 
been  established  where  family  secrets  were  bartered, 
and  family  stock  priced.  It  was  known  on  Forsyte 
'Change  that  Irene  regretted  her  marriage.  Her  regret 
was  disapproved  of.  She  ought  to  have  known  her  own 
mind;  no  dependable  woman  made  these  mistakes. 

James  reflected  sourly  that  they  had  a  nice  house 
(rather  small)  in  an  excellent  position,  no  children,  and 
no  money  troubles.  Soames  was  reserved  about  his 
affairs,  but  he  must  be  getting  a  very  warm  man.  He 
had  a  capital  income  from  the  business — for  Soames,  like 
his  father,  was  a  member  of  that  well-known  firm  of 
solicitors.  Forsyte,  Bustard  and  Forsyte — and  had  al- 
ways been  very  careful.  He  had  done  quite  unusually 
well  with  some  mortgages  he  had  taken  up,  too — a  little 
timely  foreclosure — most  lucky  hits  ! 

There  was  no  reason  why  Irene  should  not  be  happy, 
yet  they  said  she  'd  been  asking  for  a  separate  room. 
He  knew  where  that  ended.  It  was  n't  as  if  Soames 
drank. 

James  looked  at  his  daughter-in-law.  That  unseen 
glance  of  his  was  cold  and  dubious.  Appeal  and  fear 
were  in  it,  and  a  sense  of  personal  grievance.  Why 
should  he  be  worried  like  this?  It  was  very  likely  all 
nonsense;  women  were  funny  things!  They  exaggerated 
so,  you  did  n't  know  what  to  believe;  and  then  nobody 
told  him  anything,  he  had  to  find  out  everything  for 
himself.  Again  he  looked  furtively  at  Irene,  and  across 


Dinner  at  Swithin's  57 

from  her  to  Soames.  The  latter,  listening  to  Aunt 
Juley,  was  looking  up  under  his  brows  in  the  direction 
of  Bosinney. 

"He  's  fond  of  her,  I  know,"  thought  James.  "Look 
at  the  way  he  's  always  giving  her  things." 

And  the  extraordinary  unreasonableness  of  her 
disaffection  struck  him  with  increased  force.  It  was  a 
pity,  too;  she  was  a  taking  little  thing,  and  he,  James, 
would  be  really  quite  fond  of  her  if  she  'd  only  let  him. 
She  had  taken  up  lately  with  June;  that  was  doing  her 
no  good,  that  was  certainly  doing  her  no  good.  She 
was  getting  to  have  opinions  of  her  own.  He  did  n't 
know  what  she  wanted  with  anything  of  the  sort.  She  'd 
a  good  home,  and  everything  she  could  wish  for.  He 
felt  that  her  friends  ought  to  be  chosen  for  her.  To  go 
on  like  this  was  dangerous. 

June,  indeed,  with  her  habit  of  championing  the 
unfortunate,  had  dragged  from  Irene  a  confession,  and, 
in  return,  had  preached  the  necessity  of  facing  the  evil, 
by  separation,  if  need  be.  But,  in  the  face  of  these 
exhortations,  Irene  had  kept  a  brooding  silence,  as 
though  she  found  terrible  the  thought  of  this  struggle 
carried  through  in  cold  blood.  He  would  never  give 
her  up,  she  had  said  to  June. 

"Who  cares? "  June  cried;  "let  him  do  what  he  likes — 
you  've  only  to  stick  to  it!  "  And  she  had  not  scrupled 
to  say  something  of  this  sort  at  Timothy's;  James,  when 
he  heard  of  it,  had  felt  a  natural  indignation  and  horror. 

What  if  Irene  were  to  take  it  into  her  head  to — he 
could  hardly  frame  the  thought — to  leave  Soames? 
But  he  felt  this  thought  so  unbearable  that  he  at  once 
put  it  away;  the  shady  visions  it  conjured  up,  the  sound 
of  family  tongues  buzzing  in  his  ears,  the  horror  of  the 
conspicuous  happening  so  close  to  him,  to  one  of  his  own 
children!  Luckily,  she  had  no  money — a  beggarly  fifty 


58  The  Man  of  Property 

pound  a  year!  And  he  thought  of  the  deceased  Heron, 
who  had  had  nothing  to  leave  her,  with  contempt. 
Brooding  over  his  glass,  his  long  legs  twisted  under  the 
table,  he  quite  omitted  to  rise  when  the  ladies  left  the 
room.  He  would  have  to  speak  to  Soames — would  have 
to  put  him  on  his  guard;  they  could  not  go  on  like  this, 
now  that  such  a  contingency  had  occurred  to  him. 
And  he  noticed  with  sour  disfavour  that  June  had  left 
her  wine-glasses  full  of  wine. 

"That  little  thing  's  at  the  bottom  of  it  all, "  he  mused; 
"Irene  'd  never  have  thought  of  it  herself."  James 
was  a  man  of  imagination. 

The  voice  of  Swithin  roused  him  from  his  reverie. 

"I  gave  four  hundred  pounds  for  it,"  he  was  saying. 
"Of  course  it 's  a  regular  work  of  art." 

"Four  hundred!  H'm!  that's  a  lot  of  money!" 
chimed  in  Nicholas. 

The  object  alluded  to  was  an  elaborate  group  of 
statuary  in  Italian  marble,  which,  placed  upon  a  lofty 
stand  (also  of  marble) ,  diffused  an  atmosphere  of  culture 
throughout  the  room.  The  subsidiary  figures,  of  which 
there  were  six,  female,  nude,  and  of  highly  ornate 
workmanship,  were  all  pointing  towards  the  central 
figure,  also  nude,  and  female,  who  was  pointing  at  herself; 
and  all  this  gave  the  observer  a  very  pleasant  sense  of  her 
extreme  value.  Aunt  Juley,  nearly  opposite,  had  had 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  not  looking  at  it  all  the 
evening. 

Old  Jolyon  spoke;  it  was  he  who  had  started  the 
discussion. 

"Four  hundred  fiddlesticks!  Don't  tell  me  you  gave 
four  hundred  for  that?  " 

Between  the  point  of  his  collar  Swithin's  chin  made  the 
second  painful  oscillatory  movement  of  the  evening. 
"Four — hundred — pounds,  of  English  money;  not  a 


Dinner  at  Swithin's  59 

farthing  less.  I  don't  regret  it.  It  's  not  common 
English — it 's  genuine  modern  Italian!  " 

Soames  raised  the  corner  of  his  lip  in  a  smile,  and 
looked  across  at  Bosinney.  The  architect  was  grinning 
behind  the  fumes  of  his  cigarette.  Now,  indeed,  he 
looked  more  like  a  buccaneer. 

"  There  's  a  lot  of  work  about  it,"  remarked  James 
hastily,  who  was  really  moved  by  the  size  of  the  group. 
"  It  'd  sell  well  at  Jobson's.  " 

"The  poor  foreign  dey-vil  that  made  it,"  went  on 
Swithin,  "asked  me  five  hundred — I  gave  him  four. 
It  's  worth  eight.  Looked  half-starved,  poor  dey-vil!  " 

"Ah!"  chimed  in  Nicholas  suddenly,  "poor,  seedy- 
lookin'  chaps,  these  artists;  it  's  a  wonder  to  me  how 
they  live.  Now,  there  's  young  Flageoletti  that 
Fanny  and  the  girls  are  always  havin'  in  to  play  the 
fiddle;  if  he  makes  a  hundred  a  year  it  's  as  much  as 
ever  he  does!  " 

James  shook  his  head.  "Ah!"  he  said,  "/  don't 
know  how  they  live!  " 

Old  Jolyon  had  risen,  and,  cigar  in  mouth,  went  to 
inspect  the  group  at  close  quarters. 

"Would  n't  have  given  two  for  it!"  he  pronounced  at 
last. 

Soames  saw  his  father  and  Nicholas  glance  at  each 
other  anxiously;  and,  on  the  other  side  of  Swithin, 
Bosinney,  still  shrouded  in  smoke. 

"I  wonder  what  he  thinks  of  it?"  thought  Soames, 
who  knew  well  enough  that  this  group  was  hopelessly 
vieux  jeu;  hopelessly  of  the  last  generation.  There  was 
no  longer  any  sale  at  Jobson's  for  such  works  of  art. 

Swithin's  answer  came  at  last.  "You  never  knew 
anything  about  a  statue.  You  've  got  your  pictures 
and  that 'sail!  " 

Old  Jolyon  walked  back  to  his  seat,  puffing  his  cigar. 


60  The  Man  of  Property 

It  was  not  likely  that  he  was  going  to  be  drawn  into  an 
argument  with  an  obstinate  beggar  like  S within, 
pig-headed  as  a  mule,  who  had  never  known  a  statue 
from  a — straw  hat. 

" Stucco!"  was  all  he  said. 

It  had  long  been  physically  impossible  for  Swithin 
to  start;  his  fist  came  down  on  the  table.  - 

"Stucco!    I  should  like  to  see  anything  you  've  got  in 
your  house  half  as  good!  " 

And  behind  his  speech  seemed  to  sound  again  that 
rumbling  violence  of  primitive  generations. 

It  was  James  who  saved  the  situation. 

"Now,  what  do  you  say,  Mr.  Bosinney?    You  're  an 
architect;  you  ought  to  know  all  about  statues  and    j 
things!" 

Every   eye   was   turned  upon   Bosinney;   all   waited 
with  a  strange,  suspicious  look  for  his  answer. 

And  Soames,  speaking  for  the  first  time,  asked: 

"Yes,  Bosinney,  what  do  you  say? " 

Bosinney  replied  coolly: 

"The  work  is  a  remarkable  one." 

His  words  were  addressed  to  Swithin,  his  eyes  smiled 
slyly  at  old  Jolyon;  only  Soames  remained  unsatisfied. 

"Remarkable  for  what?" 

"For  its  naiveteV' 

The  answer  was  followed  by  an  impressive  silence; 
Swithin  alone  was  not  sure  whether  a  compliment  was   < 
intended. 


CHAPTER  IV 

PROJECTION  OF  THE  HOUSE 

SO  AMES  FORSYTE  walked  out  of  his  green-painted 
front  door  three  days  after  the  dinner  at  Swithin's, 
and,  looking  back  from  across  the  Square,  confirmed  his 
impression  that  the  house  needed  painting. 

He  had  left  his  wife  sitting  on  the  sofa  in  the  drawing- 
room,  her  hands  crossed  in  her  lap,  manifestly  waiting 
for  him  to  go  out.  This  was  not  unusual.  It  happened, 
in  fact,  every  day. 

He  could  not  understand  what  she  found  wrong  with 
him.  It  was  not  as  if  he  drank!  Did  he  run  into  debt, 
or  gamble,  or  swear;  was  he  violent;  were  his  friends 
rackety;  did  he  stay  out  at  night?  On  the  contrary. 

The  profound,  subdued  aversion  which  he  felt  in  his 
wife  was  a  mystery  to  him,  and  a  source  of  the  most 
terrible  irritation.  That  she  had  made  a  mistake,  and 
did  not  love  him,  had  tried  to  love  him  and  could  not 
love  him,  was  obviously  no  reason. 

He  that  could  imagine  so  outlandish  a  cause  for  his 
wife's  not  getting  on  with  him  was  certainly  no  Forsyte. 

Soames  was  forced,  therefore,  to  set  the  blame  entirely 
down  to  his  wife.  He  had  never  met  a  woman  so  capable 
of  inspiring  affection.  They  could  not  go  anywhere 
without  his  seeing  how  all  the  men  were  attracted  by 
her;  their  looks,  manners,  voices,  betrayed  it;  her 
behaviour  under  this  attention  had  been  beyond  reproach, 

61 


62  The  Man  of  Property 

That  she  was  one  of  those  women — not  too  common  in 
the  Anglo-Saxon  race — born  to  be  loved  and  to  love, 
who  when  not  loving  are  not  living,  had  certainly  never 
even  occurred  to  him.  Her  power  of  attraction  he 
regarded  as  part  of  her  value  as  his  property;  but  it 
made  him,  indeed,  suspect  that  she  could  give  as  well  as 
receive;  and  she  gave  him  nothing!  "Then  why  did 
she  marry  me?"  was  his  continual  thought.  He  had 
forgotten  his  courtship ;  that  year  and  a  half  when  he  had 
besieged  and  lain  in  wait  for  her,  devising  schemes  for 
her  entertainment,  giving  her  gifts,  proposing  to  her 
periodically,  and  keeping  her  other  admirers  away  with 
his  perpetual  presence.  He  had  forgotten  the  day  when, 
adroitly  taking  advantage  of  an  acute  phase  of  her 
dislike  to  her  home  surroundings,  he  crowned  his  labours 
with  success.  If  he  remembered  anything,  it  was  the 
dainty  capriciousness  with  which  the  gold-haired,  dark- 
eyed  girl  had  treated  him.  He  certainly  did  not  re- 
member the  look  on  her  face — strange,  passive,  appealing 
— when  suddenly  one  day  she  had  yielded,  and  said  that 
she  would  marry  him. 

It  had  been  one  of  those  real  devoted  wooings  which 
books  and  people  praise,  when  the  lover  is  at  length 
rewarded  for  hammering  the  iron  till  it  is  malleable, 
and  all  must  be  happy  ever  after  as  the  wedding  bells. 

Soames  walked  eastwards,  mousing  doggedly  along 
on  the  shady  side. 

The  house  wanted  doing  up,  unless  he  decided  to 
move  into  the  country,  and  build. 

For  the  hundredth  time  that  month  he  turned  over 
this  problem.  There  was  no  use  in  rushing  into  things. 
He  was  very  comfortably  off,  with  an  increasing  income 
getting  on  for  three  thousand  a  year;  but  his  invested 
capital  was  not  perhaps  so  large  as  his  father  believed— 
James  had  a  tendency  to  expect  that  his  children  should 


Projection  of  the  House  63 

be  better  off  than  they  were.  "I  can  manage  eight 
thousand  easily  enough,"  he  thought,  "without  calling 
in  either  Robertson's  or  Nicholl's." 

He  had  stopped  to  look  in  at  a  picture  shop,  for 
Soames  was  an  "amateur"  of  pictures,  and  had  a  little 
room  in  No.  62,  Montpellier  Square,  full  of  canvases, 
stacked  against  the  wall,  which  he  had  no  room  to  hang. 
He  brought  them  home  with  him  on  his  way  back  from 
the  City,  generally  after  dark,  and  would  enter  this  room 
on  Sunday  afternoons,  to  spend  hours  turning  the 
pictures  to  the  light,  examining  the  marks  on  their 
backs,  and  occasionally  making  notes. 

They  were  nearly  all  landscapes  with  figures  in  the 
foreground,  a  sign  of  some  mysterious  revolt  against 
London,  its  tall  houses,  its  interminable  streets,  where 
his  life  and  the  lives  of  his  breed  and  class  were  passed. 
Every  now  and  then  he  would  take  one  or  two  pictures 
away  with  him  in  a  cab,  and  stop  at  Jobson's  on  his  way 
into  the  City. 

He  rarely  showed  them  to  any  one;  Irene,  whose 
opinion  he  secretly  respected  and  perhaps  for  that 
reason  never  solicited,  had  only  been  into  the  room  on 
rare  occasions,  in  discharge  of  some  wifely  duty.  She 
was  not  asked  to  look  at  the  pictures,  and  she  never  did. 
To  Soames  this  was  another  grievance.  He  hated  that 
pride  of  hers,  and  secretly  dreaded  it. 

In  the  plate-glass  window  of  the  picture  shop  his  image 
stood  and  looked  at  him. 

His  sleek  hair  under  the  brim  of  the  tall  hat  had  a 
sheen  like  the  hat  itself;  his  cheeks,  pale  and  flat,  the  line 
of  his  clean-shaven  lips,  his  firm  chin  with  its  greyish 
shaven  tinge,  and  the  buttoned  strictness  of  his  black 
cut-away  coat,  conveyed  an  appearance  of  reserve  and 
secrecy,  of  imperturbable,  enforced  composure;  but  his 
eyes,  cold,  grey,  strained-looking,  with  a  line  in  the 


64  The  Man  of  Property 

brow  between  them,  examined  him  wistfully,  as  if  they 
knew  of  a  secret  weakness. 

He  noted  the  subjects  of  the  pictures,  the  names  of  the 
painters,  made  a  calculation  of  their  values,  but  without 
the  satisfaction  he  usually  derived  from  this  inward 
appraisement,  and  walked  on. 

No.  62  would  do  well  enough  for  another  year,  if  he 
decided  to  build!  The  times  were  good  for  building, 
money  had  not  been  so  dear  for  years;  and  the  site  he 
had  seen  at  Robin  Hill,  when  he  had  gone  down  there  in 
the  spring  to  inspect  the  Nicholl  mortgage — what  could 
be  better!  Within  twelve  miles  of  Hyde  Park  Corner, 
the  value  of  the  land  certain  to  go  up,  would  always 
fetch  more  than  he  gave  for  it;  so  that  a  house,  if  built 
in  really  good  style,  was  a  first-class  investment. 

The  notion  of  being  the  one  member  of  his  family 
with  a  country  house  weighed  but  little  with  him; 
for  to  a  true  Forsyte,  sentiment,  even  the  sentiment 
of  social  position,  was  a  luxury  only  to  be  indulged 
in  after  his  appetite  for  more  material  pleasure  had  been 
satisfied. 

To  get  Irene  out  of  London,  away  from  opportunities 
of  going  about  and  seeing  people,  away  from  her  friends 
and  those  who  put  ideas  into  her  head!  That  was  the 
thing!  She  was  too  thick  with  June!  June  disliked 
him.  He  returned  the  sentiment.  They  were  of  the 
same  blood. 

It  would  be  everything  to  get  Irene  out  of  town. 
The  house  would  please  her,  she  would  enjoy  messing 
about  with  the  decoration,  she  was  very  artistic! 

The  house  must  be  in  good  style,  something  that 
would  always  be  certain  to  command  a  price,  something 
unique,  like  that  last  house  of  Parkes,  which  had  a 
tower;  but  Parkes  had  himself  said  that  his  architect 
was  ruinous.  You  never  knew  where  you  were  with 


Projection  of  the  House  65 

those  fellows;  if  they  had  a  name  they  ran  you  into  no 
end  of  expense  and  were  conceited  into  the  bargain. 

And  a  common  architect  was  no  good — the  memory 
of  Parkes's  tower  precluded  the  employment  of  a  common 
architect. 

This  was  why  he  had  thought  of  Bosinney.  Since  the 
dinner  at  Swithin's  he  had  made  inquiries,  the  result  of 
which  had  been  meagre,  but  encouraging.  "One  of  the 
new  school." 

"Clever?" 

"As  clever  as  you  like, — a  bit — a  bit  up  in  the  air." 

He  had  not  been  able  to  discover  what  houses  Bosinney 
had  built,  nor  what  his  charges  were.  The  impression 
he  gathered  was  that  he  would  be  able  to  make  his  own 
terms.  The  more  he  reflected  on  the  idea,  the  more  he 
liked  it.  It  would  be  keeping  the  thing  in  the  family, 
with  Forsytes  almost  an  instinct;  and  he  would  be  able 
to  get  "favoured-nation,"  if  not  nominal  terms — only 
fair,  considering  the  chance  to  Bosinney  of  displaying 
his  talents,  for  this  house  must  be  no  common  edifice. 

Soames  reflected  complacently  on  the  work  it  would 
be  sure  to  bring  the  young  man;  for,  like  every  Forsyte, 
he  could  be  a  thorough  optimist  when  there  was  anything 
to  be  had  out  of  it. 

Bosinney 's  office  was  in  Sloane  Street,  close  at  hand, 
so  that  he  would  be  able  to  keep  his  eyes  continually  on 
the  plans. 

Again,  Irene  would  not  be  so  likely 'to  object  to  leaving 
London  if  her  greatest  friend's  lover  were  given  the  job. 
June's  marriage  might  depend  on  it.  Irene  could  not 
decently  stand  in  the  way  of  June's  marriage;  she 
would  never  do  that,  he  knew  her  too  well.  And  June 
would  be  pleased ;  of  this  he  saw  the  advantage. 

Bcsinney  looked  clever,  but  he  had  also — and  it  was 
one  of  his  great  attractions — an  air  as  if  he  did  not  quite 


66  The  Man  of  Property 

know  on  which  side  his  bread  were  buttered;  he  should 
be  easy  to  deal  with  in  money  matters.  Soames  made 
this  reflection  in  no  defrauding  spirit ;  it  was  the  natural 
attitude  of  his  mind — of  the  mind  of  any  good  business 
man — of  all  those  thousands  of  good  business  men 
through  whom  he  was  threading  his  way  up  Ludgate 
Hill. 

Thus  he  fulfilled  the  inscrutable  laws  of  his  great 
class — of  human  nature  itself — when  he  reflected,  with 
a  sense  of  comfort,  that  Bosinney  would  be  easy  to  deal 
with  in  money  matters. 

While  he  elbowed  his  way  on,  his  eyes,  which  he 
usually  kept  fixed  on  the  ground  before  his  feet,  were 
attracted  upwards  by  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's.  It  had 
a  peculiar  fascination  for  him,  that  old  dome,  and  not 
once,  but  twice  or  three  times  a  week,  would  he  halt  in 
his  daily  pilgrimage  to  enter  beneath  and  stop  in  .the 
side  aisles  for  five  or  ten  minutes,  scrutinising  the  names 
and  epitaphs  on  the  monuments.  The  attraction  for 
him  of  this  great  church  was  inexplicable,  unless  it 
enabled  him  to  concentrate  his  thoughts  on  the  business 
of  the  day.  If  any  affair  of  peculiar  moment,  or  demand- 
ing peculiar  acuteness,  was  weighing  on  his  mind,  he 
invariably  went  in,  to  wander  with  mouse-like  attention 
from  epitaph  to  epitaph.  Then  retiring  in  the  same 
noiseless  way,  he  would  hold  steadily  on  up  Cheapside,  a 
thought  more  of  dogged  purpose  in  his  gait,  as  though  he 
had  seen  something  which  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
buy. 

He  went  in  this  morning,  but,  instead  of  stealing  from 
monument  to  monument,  turned  his  eyes  upwards  to 
the  columns  and  spacings  of  the  walls,  and  remained 
motionless. 

His  uplifted  face,  with  the  awed  and  wistful  look 
which  faces  take  on  themselves  in  church,  was  whitened 


Projection  of  the  House  67 

to  a  chalky  hue  in  the  vast  building.  His  gloved  hands 
were  clasped  in  front  over  the  handle  of  his  umbrella. 
He  lifted  them.  Some  sacred  inspiration  perhaps  had 
come  to  him. 

"Yes,"  he  thought,  "I  must  have  room  to  hang  my 
pictures." 

That  evening,  on  his  return  from  the  City,  he  called 
at  Bosinney's  office.  He  found  the  architect  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  smoking  a  pipe,  and  ruling  off  lines  on  a 
plan.  Soames  refused  a  drink,  and  came  at  once  to  the 
point. 

"If  you've  nothing  better  to  do  on  Sunday,  come 
down  with  me  to  Robin  Hill,  and  give  me  your  opinion 
on  a  building  site." 

"Are  you  going  to  build? " 

"Perhaps,"  said  Soames;  "but  don't  speak  of  it. 
I  just  want  your  opinion." 

"Quite  so,"  said  the  architect. 

Soames  peered  about  the  room. 

"You  're  rather  high  up  here,"  he  remarked. 

Any  information  he  could  gather  about  the  nature 
and  scope  of  Bosinney's  business  would  be  all  to  the  good. 

1 '  It  does  well  enough  for  me  so  far, ' '  answered  the 
architect.  "You  're  accustomed  to  the  swells." 

He  knocked  out  his  pipe,  but  replaced  it  empty 
between  his  teeth;  it  assisted  him  perhaps  to  carry  on 
the  conversation.  Soames  noted  a  hollow  in  each 
cheek,  made  as  it  were  by  suction. 

"What  do  you  pay  for  an  office  like  this?"  said  he. 

"Fifty  too  much, "  replied  Bosinney. 

This  answer  impressed  Soames  favourably. 

" I  suppose  it  is  dear, "  he  said.  "I  '11  call  for  you  on 
Sunday  about  eleven." 

The  following  Sunday  therefore  he  called  for  Bosinney 
in  a  hansom,  and  drove  him  to  the  station.  On  arriving 


68  The  Man  of  Property 

at  Robin  Hill,  they  found  no  cab,  and  started  to  walk 
the  mile  and  a  half  to  the  site. 

It  was  the  ist  of  August — a  perfect  day,  with  a  burning 
sun  and  cloudless  sky — and  in  the  straight,  narrow  road 
leading  up  the  hill  their  feet  kicked  up  a  yellow  dust. 

"Gravel  soil,"  remarked  Soames,  and  sideways  he 
glanced  at  the  coat  Bosinney  wore.  Into  the  side- 
pockets  of  this  coat  were  thrust  bundles  of  papers,  and 
under  one  arm  was  carried  a  queer-looking  stick.  Soames 
noted  these  and  other  peculiarities. 

No  one  but  a  clever  man,  or,  indeed,  a  buccaneer, 
would  have  taken  such  liberties  with  his  appearance; 
and  though  these  eccentricities  were  revolting  to  Soames, 
he  derived  a  certain  satisfaction  from  them,  as  evidence 
of  qualities  by  which  he  must  inevitably  profit.  If  the 
fellow  could  build  houses,  what  did  his  clothes  matter? 

"I  told  you,"  he  said,  "that  I  want  this  house  to  be 
a  surprise,  so  don't  say  anything  about  it.  I  never  talk 
of  my  affairs  until  they  're  carried  through." 

Bosinney  nodded. 

"Let  women  into  your  plans, "  pursued  Soames,  "and 
you  never  know  where  it  '11  end." 

"Ah!"  said  Bosinney,  "women  are  the  devil!" 

This  feeling  had  long  been  at  the  bottom  of  Soames's 
heart;  he  had  never,  however,  put  it  into  words. 

"Oh!"  he  muttered,  "so  you're  beginning  to " 

He  stopped,  but  added,  with  an  uncontrollable  burst  of 
spite  :  "June's  got  a  temper  of  her  own — always  had." 

"A  temper  's  not  a  bad  thing  in  an  angel." 

Soames  had  never  called  Irene  an  angel.  He  could 
not  so  have  violated  his  best  instincts,  letting  other 
people  into  the  secret  of  her  value,  and  giving  himself 
away.  He  made  no  reply. 

They  had  struck  into  a  half-made  road  across  a 
warren.  A  cart-track  led  at  right-angles  to  a  gravel  pit, 


Projection  of  the  House  69 

beyond  which  the  chimneys  of  a  cottage  rose  amongst  a 
clump  of  trees  at  the  border  of  a  thick  wood.  Tussocks 
of  feathery  grass  covered  the  rough  surface  of  the  ground, 
and  out  of  these  the  larks  soared  into  the  haze  of  sunshine. 
On  the  far  horizon,  over  a  countless  succession  of  fields 
and  hedges,  rose  a  line  of  downs. 

Soames  led  till  they  had  crossed  to  the  far  side,  and 
there  he  stopped.  It  was  the  chosen  site;  but  now  that 
he  was  about  to  divulge  the  spot  to  another  he  had 
become  uneasy. 

"The  agent  lives  in  that  cottage,"  he  said;  "he'll 
give  us  some  lunch — we  'd  better  have  lunch  before  we 
go  into  this  matter." 

He  again  took  the  lead  to  the  cottage,  where  the 
agent,  a  tall  man  named  Oliver,  with  a  heavy  face  and 
grizzled  beard,  welcomed  them.  During  lunch,  which 
Soames  hardly  touched,  he  kept  looking  at  Bosinney, 
and  once  or  twice  passed  his  silk  handkerchief  stealthily 
over  his  forehead.  The  meal  came  to  an  end  at  last,  and 
Bosinney  rose. 

"I  dare  say  you've  got  business  to  talk  over,"  he 
said;  "I  '11  just  go  and  nose  about  a  bit."  Without 
waiting  for  a  reply  he  strolled  out. 

Soames  was  solicitor  to  this  estate,  and  he  spent 
nearly  an  hour  in  the  agent's  company,  looking  at 
ground-plans  and  discussing  the  Nicholl  and  other 
mortgages;  it  was  as  it  were  by  an  afterthought  that  he 
brought  up  the  question  of  the  building  site. 

"Your  people, "  he  said,  "ought  to  come  down  in  their 
price  to  me,  considering  that  I  shall  be  the  first  to  build." 

Oliver  shook  his  head. 

"The  site  you  've  fixed  on,  sir, "  he  said,  "is  the  cheap- 
est we  've  got.  Sites  at  the  top  of  the  slope  are  dearer 
by  a  good  bit." 

"Mind,"  said  Soames,  "I  've  not  decided;  "it  's  quite 


70  The  Man  of  Property 

possible  I  shan't  build  at  all.     The  ground-rent's  very 
high." 

"Well,  Mr.  Forsyte,  I  shall  be  sorry  if  you  go  off,  and  I 
think  you  '11  make  a  mistake,  sir.  There  's  not  a  bit  of 
land  near  London  with  such  a  view  as  this,  nor  one  that 's 
cheaper,  all  things  considered;  we  've  only  to  advertise, 
to  get  a  mob  of  people  after  it." 

They  looked  at  each  other.  Their  faces  said  very 
plainly:  "I  respect  you  as  a  man  of  business;  and  you 
can't  expect  me  to  believe  a  word  you  say." 

"Well,"  repeated  Soames,  "I  haven't  made  up  my 
mind;  the  thing  will  very  likely  go  off!"  With  these 
words,  taking  up  his  umbrella,  he  put  his  chilly  hand 
into  the  agent's,  withdrew  it  without  the  faintest 
pressure,  and  went  out  into  the  sun. 

He  walked  slowly  back  towards  the  site  in  deep 
thought.  His  instinct  told  him  that  what  the  agent  had 
said  was  true.  A  cheap  site.  And  the  beauty  of  it  was, 
that  he  knew  the  agent  did  not  really  think  it  cheap ;  so 
that  his  own  intuitive  knowledge  was  a  victory  over  the 
agent's. 

"Cheap  or  not,  I  mean  to  have  it, "  he  thought. 

The  larks  sprang  up  in  front  of  his  feet,  the  air  was 
full  of  butterflies,  a  sweet  fragrance  rose  from  the  wild 
grasses.  The  sappy  scent  of  the  bracken  stole  forth 
from  the  wood,  where,  hidden  in  the  depths,  pigeons  were 
cooing,  and  from  afar  on  the  warm  breeze  came  the 
rhythmic  chiming  of  church  bells. 

Soames  walked  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  his  lips 
opening  and  closing  as  though  in  anticipation  of  a  deli- 
cious morsel.  But  when  he  arrived  at  the  site  Bosinney 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  After  waiting  some  little  time, 
he  crossed  the  warren  in  the  direction  of  the  slope.  He 
would  have  shouted,  but  dreaded  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

The  warren  was  as  lonely  as  a  prairie,  its  silence  only 


Projection  of  the  House  71 

broken  by  the  rustle  of  rabbits  bolting  to  their  holes, 
and  the  song  of  the  larks. 

Soames,  the  pioneer  leader  of  the  great  Forsyte  army 
advancing  to  the  civilisation  of  this  wilderness,  felt  his 
spirit  daunted  by  the  loneliness,  by  the  invisible  singing, 
and  the  hot,  sweet  air.  He  had  begun  to  retrace  his 
steps  when  he  at  last  caught  sight  of  Bosinney. 

The  architect  was  sprawling  under  a  large  oak  tree, 
whose  trunk,  with  a  huge  spread  of  bough  and  foliage 
ragged  with  age,  stood  on  the  verge  of  the  rise. 

Soames  had  to  touch  him  on  the  shoulder  before  he 
looked  up. 

"Hallo!  Forsyte,"  he  said,  "I've  found  the  very 
place  for  your  house!  Look  here!  " 

Soames  stood  and  looked,  then  he  said,  coldly: 

"You  may  be  very  clever,  but  this  site  will  cost  me 
half  as  much  again." 

"Hang  the  cost,  man.     Look  at  the  view!  " 

Almost  from  their  feet  stretched  ripe  corn,  dipping  to 
a  small  dark  copse  beyond.  A  plain  of  fields  and  hedges 
spread  to  the  distant  grey-blue  downs.  In  a  silver 
streak  to  the  right  could  be  seen  the  line  of  the  river. 

The  sky  was  so  blue,  and  the  sun  so  bright,  that  an 
eternal  summer  seemed  to  reign  over  this  prospect. 
Thistledown  floated  round  them,  enraptured  by  the 
serenity  of  the  ether.  The  heat  danced  over  the  corn, 
and  pervading  all  was  a  soft,  insensible  hum,  like  the 
murmur  of  bright  minutes  holding  revel  between  earth 
and  heaven. 

Soames  looked.  In  spite  of  himself,  something 
swelled  in  his  breast.  To  live  here  in  sight  of  all  this, 
to  be  able  to  point  it  out  to  his  friends,  to  talk  of  it,  to 
possess  it!  His  cheeks  flushed.  The  warmth,  the 
radiance,  the  glow,  were  sinking  into  his  senses  as,  four 
years  before,  Irene's  beauty  had  sunk  into  his  senses  and 


72  The  Man  of  Property 

made  him  long  for  her.  He  stole  a  glance  at  Bosinney, 
whose  eyes,  the  eyes  of  the  coachman's  "half -tame 
leopard,"  seemed  running  wild  over  the  landscape. 
The  sunlight  had  caught  the  promontories  of  the  fellow's 
face,  the  bumpy  cheekbones,  the  point  of  his  chin,  the 
vertical  ridges  above  his  brow;  and  Soames  watched 
this  rugged,  enthusiastic,  careless  face  with  an  unpleasant 
feeling. 

A  long,  soft  ripple  of  wind  flowed  over  the  corn,  and1 
brought  a  puff  of  warm  air  into  their  faces. 

"I  could  build  you  a  teaser  here,"  said  Bosinney, 
breaking  the  silence  at  last. 

"I  daresay,"  replied  Soames,  drily.  "You  haven't 
got  to  pay  for  it." 

"For  about  eight  thousand  I  could  build  you  a  palace." 

Soames  had  become  very  pale — a  struggle  was  go- 
ing on  within  him.  He  dropped  his  eyes,  and  said 
stubbornly: 

"I  can't  afford  it." 

And  slowly,  with  his  mousing  walk,  he  led  the  way 
back  to  the  first  site. 

They  spent  some  time  there  going  into  particulars 
of  the  projected  house,  and  then  Soames  returned  to  the 
agent's  cottage. 

He  came  out  in  about  half  an  hour,  and,  joining 
Bosinney,  started  for  the  station. 

"Well,"  he  said,  opening  his  lips,  "I  've  taken  that 
site  of  yours,  after  all." 

And  again  he  was  silent,  confusedly  debating  how  it 
was  that  this  fellow,  whom  by  habit  he  despised,  should 
have  overborne  his  own  decision. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  FORSYTE  MENAGE 

LIKE  the  enlightened  thousands  of  his  class  and 
generation  in  this  great  city  of  London,  who  no 
longer  believe  in  red  velvet  chairs,  and  know  that  groups 
of  modern  Italian  marble  are  vieux  jeu,  Soames 
Forsyte  inhabited  a  house  which  did  what  it  could. 
It  owned  a  copper  door-knocker  of  individual  design,  win- 
dows which  had  been  altered  to  open  outwards,  hanging 
flower  boxes  filled  with  fuchsias,  and  at  the  back  (a  great 
feature)  a  little  court  tiled  with  jade-green  tiles,  and  sur- 
rounded by  pink  hydrangeas  in  peacock-blue  tubs.  Here, 
under  a  parchment-coloured  Japanese  sunshade  covering 
the  whole  end,  inhabitants  or  visitors  could  be  screened 
from  the  eyes  of  the  curious  while  they  drank  tea  and 
examined  at  their  leisure  the  latest  of  Soames 's  little 
silver  boxes. 

The  inner  decoration  favoured  the  First  Empire  and 
William  Morris.  For  its  size,  the  house  was  commodious ; 
there  were  countless  nooks  resembling  birds'  nests,  and 
little  things  made  of  silver  were  deposited  like  eggs. 

In  this  general  perfection  two  kinds  of  fastidiousness 
were  at  war.  There  lived  here  a  mistress  who  would 
have  dwelt  daintily  on  a  desert  island;  a  master  whose 
daintiness  was,  at  it  were,  an  investment,  cultivated 
by  the  owner  for  his  advancement,  in  accordance  with 
the  laws  of  competition.  This  competitive  daintiness 

73 


74  The  Man  of  Property 

had  caused  Soames  in  his  Marlborough  days  to  be  the 
first  boy  into  white  waistcoats  in  summer  and  cor- 
duroy waistcoats  in  winter,  had  prevented  him 
from  ever  appearing  in  public  with  his  tie  climbing  up 
his  collar,  and  induced  him  to  dust  his  patent  leather 
boots  before  a  great  multitude  assembled  on  Speech  Day 
to  hear  him  recite  Moliere. 

Skin-like  immaculateness  had  grown  over  Soames,  as 
over  many  Londoners:  impossible  to  conceive  of  him  with 
a  hair  out  of  place,  a  tie  deviating  one  eighth  of  an  inch 
from  the  perpendicular,  a  collar  unglossed!  He  would 
not  have  gone  without  a  bath  for  worlds — it  was  the 
fashion  to  take  baths;  and  how  bitter  was  his  scorn  of 
people  who  omitted  them! 

But  Irene  could  be  imagined,  like  some  nymph, 
bathing  in  wayside  streams,  for  the  joy  of  the  freshness 
and  of  seeing  her  own  fair  body. 

In  this  conflict  throughout  the  house  the  woman  had 
gone  to  the  wall.  As  in  the  struggle  between  Saxon  and 
Celt  still  going  on  within  the  nation,  the  more  impres- 
sionable and  receptive  temperament  had  had  forced  on  it 
a  conventional  superstructure. 

Thus  the  house  had  acquired  a  close  resemblance  to 
hundreds  of  other  houses  with  the  same  high  aspirations, 
having  become  "  that  very  charming  little  house  of 
the  Soames  Forsytes,  quite  individual,  my  dear — really 
elegant!  " 

For  Soames  Forsyte — read  James  Peabody,  Thomas 
Atkins,  or  Emmanuel  Spagnoletti,  the  name  in  fact  of 
any  upper-middle-class  Englishman  in  London  with  any 
pretensions  to  taste;  and  though  the  decoration  be 
different,  the  phrase  is  just. 

On  the  evening  of  August  8th,  a  week  after  the  expedi- 
tion to  Robin  Hill,  in  the  dining-room  of  this  house — 
*' quite  individual,  my  dear — really  elegant!" — Soames 


A  Forsyte  Menage  75 

and  Irene  were  seated  at  dinner.  A  hot  dinner  on 
Sundays  was  a  little  distinguishing  elegance  common 
to  this  house  and  many  others.  Early  in  married  life 
Soames  had  laid  clown  the  rule:  "  The  servants  must 
give  us  hot  dinner  on  Sundays — they  've  nothing  to  do 
but  play  the  concertina." 

The  custom  had  produced  no  revolution.  For — to 
Soames  a  rather  deplorable  sign — servants  were  devoted 
to  Irene,  who,  in  defiance  of  all  safe  tradition,  appeared 
to  recognise  their  right  to  a  share  in  the  weaknesses  of 
human  nature. 

The  happy  pair  were  seated  not  opposite  each  other, 
but  rectangularly,  at  the  handsome  rosewood  table; 
they  dined  without  a  cloth — a  distinguishing  elegance — 
and  so  far  had  not  spoken  a  word. 

Soames  liked  to  talk  during  dinner  about  business,  or 
what  he  had  been  buying,  and  so  long  as  he  talked 
Irene's  silence  did  not  distress  him.  This  evening  he 
had  found  it  impossible  to  talk.  The  decision  to  build 
had  been  weighing  on  his  mind  all  the  week,  and  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  tell  her. 

His  nervousness  about  this  disclosure  irritated  him  pro- 
foundly; she  had  no  business  to  make  him  feel  like  that 
— a  wife  and  a  husband  being  one  person.  She  had  not 
looked  at  him  once  since  they  sat  down ;  and  he  wondered 
what  on  earth  she  had  been  thinking  about  all  the  time. 
It  was  hard,  when  a  man  worked  as  he  did,  making 
money  for  her —  yes,  and  with  an  ache  in  his  heart — that 
she  should  sit  there,  looking — looking  as  if  she  saw  the 
walls  of  the  room  closing  in.  It  was  enough  to  make 
a  man  get  up  and  leave  the  table. 

The  light  from  the  rose-shaded  lamp  fell  on  her  neck 
and  arms — Soames  liked  her  to  dine  in  a  low  dress,  it 
gave  him  an  inexpressible  feeling  of  superiority  to  the 
majority  of  his  acquaintance,  whose  wives  were  coil- 


76  The  Man  of  Property 

tented  with  their  best  high  frocks  or  with  tea-gowns, 
when  they  dined  at  home.  Under  that  rosy  light  her 
amber-coloured  hair  and  fair  skin  made  strange  contrast 
with  her  dark  brown  eyes. 

Could  a  man  own  anything  prettier  than  this  dining- 
table  with  its  deep  tints,  the  starry,  soft-petalled  roses, 
the  ruby-coloured  glass,  and  quaint  silver  furnishing; 
could  a  man  own  anything  prettier  than  the  woman 
who  sat  at  it?  Gratitude  was  no  virtue  among  Forsytes, 
who,  competitive,  and  full  of  common-sense,  had  no 
occasion  for  it;  and  Soames  only  experienced  a  sense  of 
exasperation,  amounting  to  pain,  that  he  did  not  own  her 
as  it  was  his  right  to  own  her,  that  he  could  not,  as  by 
stretching  out  his  hand  to  that  rose,  pluck  her  and  sniff 
the  very  secrets  of  her  heart. 

Out  of  his  other  property,  out  of  all  the  things  he  had 
collected,  his  silver,  his  pictures,  his  houses,  his  invest- 
ments, he  got  a  secret  and  intimate  feeling;  out  of  her 
he  got  none. 

In  this  house  of  his  there  was  writing  on  every  wall. 
His  business-like  temperament  protested  against  a 
mysterious  warning  that  she  was  not  made  for  him. 
He  had  married  this  woman,  conquered  her,  made  her 
his  own,  and  it  seemed  to  him  contrary  to  the  most 
fundamental  of  all  laws,  the  law  of  possession,  that  he 
could  do  no  more  than  own  her  body — if  indeed  he  could 
do  that,  which  he  was  beginning  to  doubt.  If  any  one 
had  asked  him  if  he  wanted  to  own  her  soul,  the  question 
would  have  seemed  to  him  both  ridiculous  and  senti- 
mental. But  he  did  so  want,  and  the  writing  said  he 
never  would. 

She  was  ever  silent,  passive,  gracefully  averse,  as 
though  terrified  lest  by  word,  motion,  or  sign  she  might 
lead  him  to  believe  that  she  was  fond  of  him'  and  he 
asked  himself :  Must  I  always  go  on  like  this? 


A  Forsyte  Menage  77 

Like  most  novel  readers  of  his  generation  (and  Soames 
was  a  great  novel  reader),  literature  coloured  his  view 
of  life;  and  he  had  imbibed  the  belief  that  it  was  only  a 
question  of  time.  In  the  end  the  husband  always 
gained  the  affection  of  his  wife.  Even  in  those  cases — 
a  class  of  book  he  was  not  very  fond  of — which  ended  in 
tragedy,  the  wife  always  died  with  poignant  regrets  on 
her  lips,  or  if  it  were  the  husband  who  died — unpleasant 
thought — threw  herself  on  his  body  in  an  agony  of 
remorse. 

He  often  took  Irene  to  the  theatre,  instinctively 
choosing  the  modern  Society  plays  with  the  modern 
Society  conjugal  problem,  so  fortunately  different  from 
any  conjugal  problem  in  real  life.  He  found  that  they 
too  always  ended  in  the  same  way,  even  when  there  was 
a  lover  in  the  case.  While  he  was  watching  the  play 
Soames  often  sympathised  with  the  lover;  but  before 
he  reached  home  again,  driving  with  Irene  in  a  hansom, 
he  saw  that  this  would  not  do,  and  he  was  glad  the  play 
had  ended  as  it  had.  There  was  one  class  of  hus- 
band that  had  just  then  come  into  fashion,  the  strong, 
rather  rough,  but  extremely  sound  man,  who  was  pe- 
culiarly successful  at  the  end  of  the  play;  with  this 
person  Soames  was  really  not  in  sympathy,  and  had  it 
not  been  for  his  own  position,  would  have  expressed 
his  disgust  with  the  fellow.  But  he  was  so  conscious 
of  how  vital  to  himself  was  the  necessity  for  being  a 
successful,  even  a  " strong,"  husband,  that  he  never 
spoke  of  a  distaste  born  perhaps  by  the  perverse  pro- 
cesses of  Nature  out  of  a  secret  fund  of  brutality  in 
himself. 

But  Irene's  silence  this  evening  was  exceptional. 
He  had  never  before  seen  such  an  expression  on  her  face. 
And  since  it  is  always  the  unusual  which  alarms,  Soames 
was  alarmed.  He  ate  his  savoury,  and  hurried  the  maid 


78  The  Man  of  Property 

as  she  swept  off  the  crumbs  with  the  silver  sweeper. 
When  she  had  left  the  room,  he  filled  his  glass  with  wine 
and  said: 

"Anybody  been  here  this  afternoon?" 

"June." 

"What  did  she  want?"  It  was  an  axiom  with  the 
Forsytes  that  people  did  not  go  anywhere  unless  they 
wanted  something.  "Came  to  talk  about  her  lover, 
I  suppose?" 

Irene  made  no  reply. 

"It  looks  to  me,"  continued  Soames,  "as  if  she  were 
sweeter  on  him  than  he  is  on  her.  She 's  always  following 
him  about." 

Irene's  eyes  made  him  feel  uncomfortable. 

"You've  no  business  to  say  such  a  thing!"  she 
exclaimed. 

"Why  not?     Anybody  can  see  it." 

"They  cannot.  And  if  they  could,  it's  disgraceful 
to  say  so." 

Soames's  composure  gave  way. 

"You're  a  pretty  wife!"  he  said.  But  secretly  he 
wondered  at  the  heat  of  her  reply;  it  was  unlike  her. 
"You're  cracked  about  June!  I  can  tell  you  one 
thing:  now  that  she  has  the  Buccaneer  in  tow,  she 
does  n't  care  twopence  about  you,  and  you  '11  find  it  out. 
But  you  won't  see  so  much  of  her  in  future;  we  're  going 
to  live  in  the  country." 

He  had  been  glad  to  get  his  news  out  under  cover  of 
this  burst  of  irritation.  He  had  expected  a  cry  of 
dismay;  the  silence  with  which  his  pronouncement 
was  received  alarmed  him. 

"You  don't  seem  interested,"  he  was  obliged  to 
add. 

"I  knew  it  already." 

He  looked  at  her  sharply. 


A  Forsyte  Manage  79 


"Who  told  you?" 
"June." 

"How  did  she  know?" 

Irene  did  not  answer.  Baffled  and  uncomfortable,  he 
said: 

"It's  a  fine  thing  for  Bosinney;  it'll  be  the  making  of 
him.  I  suppose  she's  told  you  all  about  it?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  another  pause,  and  then  Soames  said: 

"I  suppose  you  don't  want  to  go?" 

Irene  made  no  reply. 

"Well,  I  can't  tell  what  you  want.  You  never  seem 
contented  here." 

"Have  my  wishes  anything  to  do  with  it?" 

She  took  the  vase  of  roses  and  left  the  room.  Soames 
remained  seated.  Was  it  for  this  that  he  had  signed  that 
contract  ?  Was  it  for  this  that  he  was  going  to  spend 
some  ten  thousand  pounds?  Bosinney 's  phrase  came 
back  to  him :  "  Women  are  the  devil! " 

But  presently  he  grew  calmer.  It  might  have  been 
worse.  She  might  have  flared  up.  He  had  expected 
something  more  than  this.  It  was  lucky,  after  all,  that 
June  had  broken  the  ice  for  him.  She  must  have 
wormed  it  out  of  Bosinney;  he  might  have  known  she 
would. 

He  lighted  his  cigarette.  After  all,  Irene  had  not 
made  a  scene!  She  would  come  round — that  was  the 
best  of  her;  she  was  cold,  but  not  sulky.  And,  puff- 
ing the  cigarette  smoke  at  a  lady-bird  on  the  shining 
table,  he  plunged  into  a  reverie  about  the  house.  It 
was  no  good  worrying;  he  would  go  and  make  it  up 
presently.  She  would  be  sitting  out  there  in  the  dark, 
under  the  Japanese  sunshade,  knitting.  A  beautiful, 
warm  night. 

In  truth,  June  had  come  in  that  afternoon  with  shining 


80  The  Man  of  Property 

eyes,  and  the  words:  "Soames  is  a  brick!  It's  splendid 
for  Phil — the  very  thing  for  him! " 

Irene's  face  remaining  dark  and  puzzled,  she  went  on: 

"Your  new  house  at  Robin  Hill,  of  course  What? 
Don't  you  know?" 

Irene  did  not  know. 

"Oh!  then,  I  suppose  I  ought  n't  to  have  told  you!" 
Looking  impatiently  at  her  friend,  she  cried: ' '  You  look  as 
if  you  did  n't  care.  Don't  you  see,  it's  what  I've  been 
praying  for — the  very  chance  he's  been  wanting  all 
this  time.  Now  you'll  see  what  he  can  do";  and  there- 
upon she  poured  out  the  whole  story. 

Since  her  own  engagement  she  had  not  seemed  much 
interested  in  her  friend's  position;  the  hours  she  spent 
with  Irene  were  given  to  confidences  of  her  own ;  and  at 
times,  for  all  her  affectionate  pity,  it  was  impossible  to 
keep  out  of  her  smile  a  trace  of  compassionate  contempt 
for  the  woman  who  had  made  such  a  mistake  in  her 
life — such  a  vast,  ridiculous  mistake. 

"  He 's  to  have  all  the  decorations  as  well — a  free  hand. 
It's  perfect — "  June  broke  into  laughter,  her  little 
figure  quivered  gleefully;  she  raised  her  hand,  and  struck 
a  blow  at  a  muslin  curtain.  ' '  Do  you  know  I  even  asked 
Uncle  James — "  But,  with  a  sudden  dislike  to  men- 
tioning that  incident,  she  stopped;  and  presently,  finding 
her  friend  so  unresponsive,  went  away.  She  looked 
back  from  the  pavement,  and  Irene  was  still  standing 
in  the  doorway.  In  response  to  her  farewell  wave, 
Irene  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and,  turning  slowly, 
shut  the  door. 

Soames  went  to  the  drawing-room  presently,  and 
peered  at  her  through  the  window. 

Out  in  the  shadow  of  the  Japanese  sunshade  she  was 
sitting  very  still,  the  lace  on  her  white  shoulders  stirring 
with  the  soft  rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom. 


A  Forsyte  Manage  81 

But  about  this  silent  creature  sitting  there  so  motion- 
less, in  the  dark,  there  seemed  a  warmth,  a  hidden 
fervour  of  feeling,  as  if  the  whole  of  her  being  had  been 
stirred,  and  some  change  were  taking  place  in  its  very 
depths. 

He  stole  back  to  the  dining-room  unnoticed. 


CHAPTER  VI 

JAMES    AT    LARGE 

IT  was  not  long  before  Soames's  determination  to  build 
went  the  round  of  the  family,  and  created  the  flutter 
that  any  decision  connected  with  property  should  make 
among  Forsytes. 

It  was  not  his  fault,  for  he  had  been  determined  that 
no  one  should  know.  June,  in  the  fulness  of  her  heart, 
had  told  Mrs.  Small,  giving  her  leave  only  to  tell  Aunt 
Ann — she  thought  it  would  cheer  her,  the  poor  old 
sweet!  for  Aunt  Ann  had  kept  her  room  now  for  many 
days. 

Mrs.  Small  told  Aunt  Ann  at  once,  who,  smiling  as  she 
lay  back  on  her  pillows,  said  in  her  distinct,  trembling 
old  voice: 

"  It 's  very  nice  for  dear  June;  but  I  hope  they  will  be 
careful — it's  rather  dangerous!" 

When  she  was  left  alone  again,  a  frown,  like  a  cloud 
presaging  a  rainy  morrow,  crossed  her  face. 

While  she  was  lying  there  so  many  days  the  process  of 
recharging  her  will  went  on  all  the  time;  it  spread  to 
her  face,  too,  and  tightening  movements  were  always  in 
action  at  the  corners  of  her  lips. 

The  maid  Smither,  who  had  been  in  her  service  nearly 
thirty  years,  and  was  spoken  of  as  "Smither — a  good 
girl — but  so  slow!" — the  maid  Smither  performed  every 
morning  with  extreme  punctiliousness  the  crowning 
ceremony  of  that  ancient  toilet.  Taking  from  the 

82 


James  at  Large  83 

recesses  of  their  pure  white  band-box  those  flat,  grey 
curls,  the  insignia  of  personal  dignity,  she  placed  them 
securely  in  her  mistress's  hands,  and  turned  her  back. 

And  every  day  Aunts  Juley  and  Hester  were  required 
to  come  and  report  on  Timothy ;  what  news  there  was  of 
Nicholas ;  whether  dear  June  had  succeeded  in  getting 
Jolyon  to  shorten  the  engagement,  now  that  Mr.  Bosin- 
ney  was  building  Soames  a  house;  whether  young 
Roger's  wife  was  really — expecting;  how  the  operation 
on  Archie  had  succeeded ;  and  what  Swithin  had  done 
about  that  empty  house  in  Wigmore  Street,  where  the 
tenant  Had  lost  all  his  money  and  treated  him  so  badly; 
above  all,  about  Soames;  was  Irene  still — still  asking  for 
a  separate  room?  And  every  morning  Smither  was  told: 
"I  shall  be  coming  down  this  afternoon,  Smither,  about 
two  o  'clock.  I  shall  want  your  arm  after  all  these  days 
in  bed!" 

After  telling  Aunt  Ann,  Mrs.  Small  had  spoken  of  the 
house  in  the  strictest  confidence  to  Mrs.  Nicholas,  who 
in  her  turn  had  asked  Winifred  Dartie  for  confirmation, 
supposing,  of  course,  that,  being  Soames's  sister,  she 
would  know  all  about  it.  Through  her  it  had  in  due 
course  come  around  to  the  ears  of  James.  He  had  been 
a  good  deal  agitated. 

"Nobody,"  he  said,  "told  him  anything."  And, 
rather  than  go  direct  to  Soames  himself,  of  whose 
taciturnity  he  was  afraid,  he  took  his  umbrella  and  went 
round  to  Timothy's. 

He  found  Mrs.  Septimus  and  Hester  (who  had  been 
told — she  was  so  safe,  she  found  it  tiring  to  talk)  ready, 
and  indeed  eager,  to  discuss  the  news.  It  was  very  good 
of  dear  Soames,  they  thought,  to  employ  Mr.  Bosinney, 
but  rather  risky.  What  had  George  named  him?  "The 
Buccaneer! "  How  droll!  But  George  was  always  droll! 
However,  it  would  be  all  in  the  family — they  supposed 


84  The  Man  of  Property 

they  must  really  look  upon  Mr.  Bosinney  as  belonging  to 
the  family,  though  it  seemed  strange. 

James  here  broke  in: 

"Nobody  knows  anything  about  him.  I  don't  see 
what  Soames  wants  with  a  young  man  like  that.  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  Irene  had  put  her  oar  in.  I 
shall  speak  to " 

"Soames,"  interposed  Aunt  Juley,  "told  Mr.  Bosinney 
that  he  didn't  wish  it  mentioned.  He  would  n't  like  it 
to  be  talked  about,  I'm  sure,  and  if  Timothy  knew  he 
would  be  very  vexed,  I " 

James  put  his  hand  behind  his  ear: 

"What?"  he  said.  "I'm  getting  very  deaf.  I  sup- 
pose I  don 't  hear  people.  Emily  's  got  a  bad  toe.  We 
sha'n't  be  able  to  start  for  Wales  till  the  end  of  the 
month.  There  's  always  something!  "  And,  having  got 
what  he  wanted,  he  took  his  hat  and  went  away. 

It  was  a  fine  afternoon,  and  he  walked  across  the 
Park  towards  Soames's,  where  he  intended  to  dine,  for 
Emily 's  toe  kept  her  in  bed,  and  Rachel  and  Cicely  were 
on  a  visit  in  the  country.  He  took  the  slanting  path 
from  the  Bayswater  side  of  the  Row  to  the  Knights- 
bridge  Gate,  across  a  pasture  of  short,  burnt  grass, 
dotted  with  blackened  sheep,  strewn  with  seated  couples 
and  strange  waifs  lying  prone  on  their  faces,  like  corpses 
on  a  field  over  which  the  wave  of  battle  has  rolled. 

He  walked  rapidly,  his  head  bent,  looking  neither  to 
the  right  nor  left.  The  appearance  of  this  park,  the 
centre  of  his  own  battle-field,  where  he  had  all  his  life 
been  fighting,  excited  no  thought  or  speculation  in  his 
mind.  These  corpses  flung  down  there  from  out  the 
press  and  turmoil  of  the  struggle,  these  pairs  of  lovers 
sitting  cheek  by  jowl  for  an  hour  of  idle  Elysium  snatched 
from  the  monotony  of  their  treadmill,  awakened  no 
fancies  in  his  mind;  he  had  outlived  that  kind  of  imagina- 


James  at  Large  85 

tion;  his  nose,  like  the  nose  of  a  sheep,  was  fastened 
to  the  pastures  on  which  he  browsed. 

One  of  his  tenants  had  lately  shown  a  disposition  to  be 
behindhand  in  his  rent,  and  it  had  become  a  grave  ques- 
tion whether  he  had  not  better  turn  him  out  at  once, 
and  so  run  the  risk  of  not  re-letting  before  Christmas. 
S within  had  just  been  let  in  very  badly,  but  it  had 
served  him  right — he  had  held  on  too  long. 

He  pondered  this  as  he  walked  steadily,  holding  his 
umbrella  carefully  by  the  wood,  just  below  the  crook  of 
the  handle,  so  as  to  keep  the  ferule  off  the  ground,  and 
not  fray  the  silk  in  the  middle.  And,  with  his  thin,  high 
shoulders  stooped,  his  long  legs  moving  with  swift  me- 
chanical precision,  this  passage  through  the  Park,  where 
the  sun  shone  with  a  clear  flame  on  so  much  idleness — on 
so  many  human  evidences  of  the  remorseless  battle  of 
Property  raging  beyond  its  ring, — was  like  the  flight  of 
some  land  bird  across  the  sea. 

He  felt  a  touch  on  the  arm  as  he  came  out  at  Albert 
Gate. 

It  was  Soames,  who,  crossing  from  the  shady  side  of 
Piccadilly,  where  he  had  been  walking  home  from  the 
office,  had  suddenly  appeared  alongside. 

"Your  mother's  in  bed,"  said  James;  "I  was  just 
coming  to  you,  but  I  suppose  I  shall  be  in  the  way." 

The  outward  relations  between  James  and  his  son 
were  marked  by  a  lack  of  sentiment  peculiarly  Forsytean, 
but  for  all  that  the  two  were  by  no  means  unattached. 
Perhaps  they  regarded  one  another  as  an  investment; 
certainly  they  were  solicitous  of  each  other's  welfare, 
glad  of  each  other's  company.  They  had  never  ex- 
changed two  words  upon  the  more  intimate  problems 
of  life,  or  revealed  in  each  other's  presence  the  existence 
of  any  deep  feeling. 

Something  beyond  the  power  of  word-analysis  bound 


86  The  Man  of  Property 

them  together,  something  hidden  deep  in  the  fibre  x>f 
nations  and  families — for  blood,  they  say,  is  thicker  than 
water — and  neither  of  them  was  a  cold-blooded  man. 
Indeed,  in  James  love  of  his  children  was  now  the  prime 
motive  of  his  existence.  To  have  creatures  who  were 
parts  of  himself,  to  whom  he  might  transmit  the  money 
he  saved,  was  at  the  root  of  his  saving ;  and,  at  seventy- 
five,  what  was  left  that  could  give  him  pleasure,  but — 
saving?  The  kernel  of  life  was  in  this  saving  for  his 
children. 

Than  James  Forsyte,  notwithstanding  all  his  "Jonah- 
isms,"  there  was  no  saner  man  (if  the  leading  symptom 
of  sanity,  as  we  are  told,  is  self-preservation,  though 
without  doubt  Timothy  went  too  far)  in  all  this  London, 
of  which  he  owned  so  much,  and  loved  with  such  a  dumb 
love,  as  the  centre  of  his  opportunities.  He  had  the 
marvellous  instinctive  sanity  of  the  middle  class.  In 
him — more  than  in  Jolyon,  with  his  masterful  will  and 
his  moments  of  tenderness  and  philosophy — more  than 
in  S within,  the  martyr  to  crankiness — Nicholas,  the  suf- 
ferer from  ability — and  Roger,  the  victim  of  enterprise — 
beat  the  true  pulse  of  compromise ;  of  all  the  brothers  he 
was  least  remarkable  in  mind  and  person,  and  for  that 
reason  more  likely  to  live  for  ever. 

To  James,  more  than  to  any  of  the  others,  was  "the 
family"  significant  and  dear.  There  had  always  been 
something  primitive  and  cosy  in  his  attitude  towards 
life ;  he  loved  the  family  hearth,  he  loved  gossip,  and  he 
loved  grumbling.  All  his  decisions  were  formed  of  a 
cream  which  he  skimmed  off  the  family  mind;  and, 
through  that  family,  off  the  minds  of  thousands  of 
other  families  of  similar  fibre.  Year  after  year,  week 
after  week,  he  went  to  Timothy's,  and  in  his  brother's 
front  drawing-room — his  legs  twisted,  his  long  white 
whiskers  framing  his  clean-shaven  mouth — would  sit 


James  at  Large  87 

watching  the  family  pot  simmer,  the  cream  rising  to  the 
top;  and  he  would  go  away  sheltered,  refreshed,  com- 
forted, with  an  indefinable  sense  of  comfort. 

Beneath  the  adamant  of  his  self -preserving  instinct 
there  was  much  real  softness  in  James;  a  visit  to  Timo- 
thy's was  like  an  hour  spent  in  the  lap  of  a  mother;  and 
the  deep  craving  he  himself  had  for  the  protection  of  the 
family  wing  reacted  in  turn  on  his  feelings  towards  his 
own  children ;  it  was  a  nightmare  to  him  to  think  of  them 
exposed  to  the  treatment  of  the  world,  in  money,  health, 
or  reputation.  When  his  old  friend  John  Street's  son 
volunteered  for  special  service,  he  shook  his  head  queru- 
lously, and  wondered  what  John  Street  was  about  to 
allow  it;  and  when  young  Street  was  assagaied,  he  took 
it  so  much  to  heart  that  he  made  a  point  of  calling  every- 
where with  the  special  object  of  saying,  "He  knew  how 
it  would  be — he  'd  no  patience  with  them!" 

When  his  son-in-law  Dartie  had  that  financial  crisis, 
due  to  speculation  in  oil  shares,  James  made  himself  ill 
worrying  over  it;  the  knell  of  all  prosperity  seemed  to 
have  sounded.  It  took  him  three  months  and  a  visit  to 
Baden-Baden  to  get  better;  there  was  something  terrible 
in  the  idea  that  but  for  his,  James's,  money,  Dartie's 
name  might  have  appeared  in  the  Bankruptcy  List. 

Composed  of  a  physiological  mixture  so  sound  that  if 
he  had  an  earache  he  thought  he  was  dying,  he  regarded 
the  occasional  ailments  of  his  wife  and  children  as  in 
the  nature  of  personal  grievances,  special  interventions 
of  Providence  for  the  purpose  of  destroying  his  peace  of 
mind;  but  he  did  not  believe  at  all  in  the  ailments  of 
people  outside  his  own  immediate  family,  affirming  them 
in  every  case  to  be  due  to  neglected  liver. 

His  universal  comment  was:  "What  can  they  expect? 
I  have  it  myself,  if  I  'm  not  careful!" 

When  he  went  to  Soames's  that  evening  he  felt  that 


88  The  Man  of  Property 

life  was  hard  on  him.  There  was  Emily  with  a  bad  toe, 
and  Rachel  gadding  about  in  the  country;  he  got  no 
sympathy  from  anybody;  and  Ann,  she  was  ill — he  did 
not  believe  she  would  last  through  the  summer;  he  had 
called  there  three  times  now  without  her  being  able  to 
see  him!  And  this  idea  of  Soames's,  building  a  house, 
that  would  have  to  be  looked  into.  As  to  the  trouble 
with  Irene,  he  did  n't  know  what  was  to  come  of  that — 
anything  might  come  of  it! 

He  entered  62  Montpellier  Square  with  the  fullest 
intentions  of  being  miserable. 

It  was  already  half-past  seven,  and  Irene,  dressed  for 
dinner,  was  seated  in  the  drawing-room.  She  was  wear- 
ing her  gold-coloured  frock — for,  having  been  displayed 
at  a  dinner-party,  a  soiree,  and  a  dance,  it  was  now  to  be 
worn  at  home — and  she  had  adorned  the  bosom  with  a 
cascade  of  lace,  on  which  James's  eyes  riveted  themselves 
at  once. 

"Where  do  you  get  your  things?"  he  said  in  an  ag- 
gravated voice.  "I  never  see  Rachel  and  Cicely  look- 
ing half  so  well.  That  rose-point,  now — that 's  not 
real!" 

Irene  came  close,  to  prove  to  him  that  he  was  in  error. 

And,  in  spite  of  himself,  James  felt  the  influence  of  her 
deference,  of  the  faint  seductive  perfume  exhaling  from 
her.  No  self-respecting  Forsyte  surrendered  at  a  blow; 
so  he  merely  said  he  did  n't  know — he  expected  she  was 
spending  a  pretty  penny  on  dress. 

The  gong  sounded,  and,  putting  her  white  arm  within 
his,  Irene  took  him  into  the  dining-room.  She  seated  him 
in  Soames's  usual  place,  round  the  corner  on  her  left. 
The  light  fell  softly  there,  so  that  he  would  not  be  worried 
by  the  gradual  dying  of  the  day ;  and  she  began  to  talk 
to  him  about  himself. 

Presently,  over  James  came  a  change,  like  the  mellow- 


James  at  Large  89 

ing  that  steals  upon  a  fruit  in  the  sun ;  a  sense  of  being 
caressed,  and  praised,  and  petted,  and  all  without  the 
bestowal  of  a  single  caress  or  word  of  praise.  He  felt 
that  what  he  was  eating  was  agreeing  with  him ;  he  could 
not  get  that  feeling  at  home;  he  did  not  know  when  he 
had  enjoyed  a  glass  of  champagne  so  much,  and,  on 
inquiring  the  brand  and  price,  was  surprised  to  find  that 
it  was  one  of  which  he  had  a  large  stock  himself,  but 
could  never  drink ;  he  instantly  formed  the  resolution  to 
let  his  wine  merchant  know  that  he  had  been  swindled. 

Looking  up  from  his  food,  he  remarked: 

"You  've  a  lot  of  nice  things  about  the  place.  Now, 
what  did  you  give  for  that  sugar-sifter?  Shouldn't 
wonder  if  it  was  worth  money!" 

He  was  particularly  pleased  with  the  appearance  of  a 
picture  on  the  wall  opposite,  which  he  himself  had  given 
them: 

"  I  'd  no  idea  it  was  so  good! "  he  said. 

They  rose  to  go  into  the  drawing-room,  and  James 
followed  Irene  closely. 

"That  's  what  I  call  a  capital  little  dinner,"  he  mur- 
mured, breathing  pleasantly  down  on  her  shoulder; 
"nothing  heavy — and  not  too  Frenchified.  But  /  can't 
get  it  at  home.  I  pay  my  cook  sixty  pounds  a  year,  but 
she  can't  give  me  a  dinner  like  that!" 

He  had  as  yet  made  no  allusion  to  the  building  of  the 
house,  nor  did  he  when  Soames,  pleading  the  excuse  of 
business,  betook  himself  to  the  room  at  the  top,  where  he 
kept  his  pictures. 

James  was  left  alone  with  his  daughter-in-law.  The 
glow  of  the  wine,  and  of  an  excellent  liqueur,  was  still 
within  him.  He  felt  quite  warm  towards  her.  She  was 
really  a  taking  little  thing;  she  listened  to  you,  and 
seemed  to  understand  what  you  were  saying;  and,  while 
talking,  he  kept  examining  her  figure,  from  her  bronze- 


90  The  Man  of  Property 

coloured  shoes  to  the  waved  gold  of  her  hair.  She  was 
leaning  back  in  an  Empire  chair,  her  shoulders  poised 
against  the  top — her  body,  flexibly  straight  and  unsup- 
ported from  the  hips,  swaying  when  she  moved,  as  though 
giving  to  the  arms  of  a  lover.  Her  lips  were  smiling, 
her  eyes  half-closed. 

It  may  have  been  a  recognition  of  danger  in  the  very 
charm  of  her  attitude,  or  a  twang  of  digestion,  that 
caused  a  sudden  dumbness  to  fall  on  James.  He  did 
not  remember  ever  having  been  quite  alone  with  Irene 
before.  And,  as  he  looked  at  her,  an  odd  feeling  crept 
over  him,  as  though  he  had  come  across  something 
strange  and  foreign. 

Now  what  was  she  thinking  about — sitting  back  like 
that? 

Thus  when  he  spoke  it  was  in  a  sharper  voice,  as  if 
he  had  been  awakened  from  a  pleasant  dream. 

"What  d'you  do  with  yourself  all  day?"  he  said. 
"You  never  come  round  to  Park  Lane!" 

She  seemed  to  be  making  very  lame  excuses,  and 
James  did  not  look  at  her.  He  did  not  want  to  believe  that 
she  was  really  avoiding  them — it  would  mean  too  much. 

"I  expect  the  fact  is,  you  haven't  time,"  he  said; 
"you're  always  about  with  June.  I  expect  you're 
useful  to  her  with  her  young  man,  chaperoning,  and 
one  thing  and  another.  They  tell  me  she 's  never  at 
home  now;  your  Uncle  Jolyon  he  doesn't  like  it,  I 
fancy,  being  left  so  much  alone  as  he  is.  They  tell 
me  she  's  always  hanging  about  for  this  young  Bosinney ; 
I  suppose  he  comes  here  every  day.  Now,  what  do 
you  think  of  him?  D'  you  think  he  knows  his  own 
mind?  He  seems  to  me  a  poor  thing.  I  should  say 
the  grey  mare  was  the  better  horse!" 

The  colour  deepened  in  Irene's  face;  and  James 
watched  her  suspiciously. 


James  at  Large  91 

"Perhaps  you  don't  quite  understand  Mr.  Bosinney," 
she  said. 

"  Don't  understand  him! "  James  hurried  out.  "Why 
not? — you  can  see  he's  one  of  these  artistic  chaps. 
They  say  he  's  clever — they  all  think  they  're  clever. 
You  know  more  about  him  than  I  do,"  he  added;  and 
again  his  suspicious  glance  rested  on  her. 

"He  is  designing  a  house  for  Soames,"  she  said 
softly,  evidently  trying  to  smooth  things  over. 

"That  brings  me  to  what  I  was  going  to  say,"  con- 
tinued James;  "I  don't  know  what  Soames  wants 
with  a  young  man  like  that;  why  doesn't  he  go  to  a 
first-rate  man?" 

"Perhaps  Mr.   Bosinney  is  first-rate!" 

James  rose,  and  took  a  turn  with  bent  head. 

"That's  it,"  he  said,  "you  young  people,  you  all 
stick  together;  you  all  think  you  know  best!" 

Halting  his  tall,  lank  figure  before  her,  he  raised  a 
finger,  and  levelled  it  at  her  bosom,  as  though  bringing 
an  indictment  against  her  beauty: 

"All  I  can  say  is,  these  artistic  people,  or  whatever 
they  call  themselves,  they  're  as  unreliable  as  they  can 
be;  and  my  advice  to  you  is,  don't  you  have  too  much 
to  do  with  him!" 

Irene  smiled ;  and  in  the  curve  of  her  lips  was  a  strange 
provocation.  She  seemed  to  have  lost  her  deference. 
Her  breast  rose  and  fell  as  though  with  secret  anger; 
she  drew  her  hands  inwards  from  their  rest  on  the  arms 
of  her  chair  until  the  tips  of  her  fingers  met,  and  her 
dark  eyes  looked  unfathomably  at  James. 

The  latter  gloomily  scrutinised  the  floor. 

"I  tell  you  my  opinion,"  he  said,  "it's  a  pity  you 
haven't  got  a  child  to  think  about,  and  occupy  you! " 

A  brooding  look  came  instantly  on  Irene's  face,  and 
even  James  became  conscious  of  the  rigidity  that  took 


92  The  Man  of  Property 

possession  of  her  whole  figure  beneath  the  softness  of 
its  silk  and  lace  clothing. 

He  was  frightened  by  the  effect  he  had  produced, 
and,  like  most  men  with  but  little  courage,  he  sought  at 
once  to  justify  himself  by  bullying. 

"You  don't  seem  to  care  for  going  about.  Why 
don't  you  drive  down  to  Hurlingham  with  us?  And 
go  to  the  theatre  now  and  then.  At  your  time  of  life 
you  ought  to  take  an  interest  in  things.  You're  a 
young  woman! " 

The  brooding  look  darkened  on  her  face;  he  grew 
nervous. 

"Well,' I  know  nothing  about  it,"  he  said;  "nobody 
tells  me  anything.  Soames  ought  to  be  able  to  take  care 
of  himself.  If  he  can't  take  care  of  himself  he  must  n't 
look  to  me — that 's  all " 

Biting  the  corner  of  his  forefinger  he  stole  a  cold, 
sharp  look  at  his  daughter-in-law. 

He  encountered  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  own,  so  dark 
and  deep  that  he  stopped,  and  broke  into  a  gentle 
perspiration. 

"Well,  I  must  be  going,"  he  said  after  a  short  pause 
and  a  minute  later  rose,  with  a  slight  appearance  of 
surprise,  as  though  he  had  expected  to  be  asked  to 
stop.  Giving  his  hand  to  Irene,  he  allowed  himself 
to  be  conducted  to  the  door,  and  let  out  into  the  street. 
He  would  not  have  a  cab,  he  would  walk,  Irene  was 
to  say  good-night  to  Soames  for  him,  and  if  she  wanted 
a  little  gaiety,  well,  he  would  drive  her  down  to  Rich- 
mond any  day. 

He  walked  home,  and  going  up-stairs,  woke  Emily 
out  of  the  first  sleep  she  had  had  for  four  and  twenty 
hours,  to  tell  her  that  it  was  his  impression  things  were 
in  a  bad  way  at  Soames's;  on  this  theme  he  descanted 
for  half  an  hour,  until  at  last,  saying  that  he  would  not 


James  at  Large  93 

sleep  a  wink,  he  turned  on  his  side  and  instantly  began 
to  snore. 

In  Montpellier  Square  Soames,  who  had  come  from 
the  picture  room,  stood  invisible  at  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
watching  Irene  sort  the  letters  brought  by  the  last  post. 
She  turned  back  into  the  drawing-room;  but  in  a 
minute  came  out,  and  stood  as  if  listening.  Then 
she  came  stealing  up  the  stairs,  with  a  kitten  in  her 
arms.  He  could  see  her  face  bent  over  the  little  beast, 
which  was  purring  against  her  neck.  Why  couldn't 
she  look  at  him  like  that? 

Suddenly  she  saw  him,  and  her  face  changed. 

"Any  letters  for  me?"  he  said. 

"Three." 

He  stood  aside,  and  without  another  word  she  passed 
on  into  the  bedroom. 


CHAPTER  VII 
OLD  JOLYON'S   PECCADILLO 

OLD  JOLYON  came  out  of  Lord's  cricket  ground 
that  same  afternoon  with  the  intention  of 
going  home.  He  had  not  reached  Hamilton  Terrace 
before  he  changed  his  mind,  and  hailing  a  cab,  gave  the 
driver  an  address  in  Wistaria  Avenue.  He  had  taken 
a  resolution. 

June  had  hardly  been  at  home  at  all  that  week;  she 
had  given  him  nothing  of  her  company  for  a  long  time 
past,  not,  in  fact,  since  she  had  become  engaged  to 
Bosinney.  He  never  asked  her  for  her  company.  It 
was  not  his  habit  to  ask  people  for  things!  She  had 
just  that  one  idea  now — Bosinney  and  his  affairs — and 
she  left  him  stranded  in  his  great  house,  with  a  parcel 
of  servants,  and  not  a  soul  to  speak  to  from  morning 
to  night.  His  Club  was  closed  for  cleaning;  his  Boards 
in  recess;  there  was  nothing,  therefore,  to  take  him 
into  the  city.  June  had  wanted  him  to  go  away;  she 
would  not  go  herself,  because  Bosinney  was  in  London. 

But  where  was  he  to  go  by  himself?  He  could  not  go 
abroad  alone;  the  sea  upset  his  liver;  he  hated  hotels. 
Roger  went  to  a  hydropathic — he  was  not  going  to 
begin  that  at  his  time  of  life,  those  new-fangled  places 
were  all  humbug! 

With  such  formulas  he  clothed  to  himself  the  desola- 
tion of  his  spirit;  the  lines  down  his  face  deepening,  his 


Old  Jolyon's  Peccadillo  95 

eyes  day  by  day  looking  forth  with  the  melancholy  that 
sat  so  strangely  on  a  face  that  was  wont  to  be  strong  and 
serene. 

And  so  that  afternoon  he  took  this  journey  through 
St.  John's  Wood,  in  the  golden  light  that  sprinkled  the 
rounded  green  bushes  of  the  acacias  before  the  little 
houses,  in  the  summer  sunshine  that  seemed  holding 
a  revel  over  the  little  gardens ;  and  he  looked  about  him 
with  interest;  for  this  was  a  district  which  no  Forsyte 
entered  without  open  disapproval  and  secret  curiosity. 

His  cab  stopped  in  front  of  a  small  house  of  that 
peculiar  buff  colour  which  implies  a  long  immunity  from 
paint.  It  had  an  outer  gate,  and  a  rustic  approach. 

He  stepped  out,  his  bearing  extremely  composed;  his 
massive  head,  with  its  drooping  moustache  and  wings  of 
white  hair,  very  upright,  under  an  excessively  large 
top  hat;  his  glance  firm,  a  little  angry.  He  had  been 
driven  into  this ! 

"Mrs.  Jolyon  Forsyte  at  home?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir! — what  name  shall  I  say,  if  you  please, 
sir?" 

Old  Jolyon  could  not  help  twinkling  at  the  little 
maid  as  he  gave  his  name.  She  seemed  to  him  such  a 
funny  little  toad ! 

And  he  followed  her  through  the  dark  hall,  into  a 
small  double  drawing-room,  where  the  furniture  was 
covered  in  chintz,  and  the  little  maid  placed  him  in  a 
chair. 

"They  're  all  in  the  garden,  sir;  if  you'll  kindly  take 
a  seat,  I  '11  tell  them." 

Old  Jolyon  sat  down  in  the  chintz-covered  chair,  and 
looked  around  him.  The  whole  place  seemed  to  him,  as 
he  would  have  expressed  it,  pokey;  there  was  a  certain 
— he  could  not  tell  exactly  what — air  of  shabbiness,  or 
rather  of  making  two  ends  meet,  about  everything. 


96  The  Man  of  Property 

As  far  as  he  could  see,  not  a  single  piece  of  furniture 
was  worth  a  five-pound  note.  The  walls,  distempered 
rather  a  long  time  ago,  were  decorated  with  water- 
colour  sketches;  across  the  ceiling  meandered  a  long 
crack. 

These  little  houses  were  all  old,  second-rate  concerns; 
he  should  hope  the  rent  was  under  a  hundred  a  year; 
it  hurt  him  more  than  he  could  have  said,  to  think  of  a 
Forsyte — his  own  son — living  in  such  a  place. 

The  little  maid  came  back.  Would  he  please  to  go 
down  into  the  garden  ? 

Old  Jolyon  marched  out  through  the  French  windows. 
In  descending  the  steps  he  noticed  that  they  wanted 
painting. 

Young  Jolyon,  his  wife,  his  two  children,  and  his  dog 
Balthasar  were  all  out  there  under  a  pear-tree. 

This  walk  towards  them  was  the  most  courageous  act 
of  old  Jolyon's  life;  but  no  muscle  of  his  face  moved, 
no  nervous  gesture  betrayed  him.  He  kept  his  deep-set 
eyes  steadily  on  the  enemy. 

In  those  two  minutes  he  demonstrated  to  perfection 
all  that  unconscious  soundness,  balance,  and  vitality  of 
fibre  that  made  of  him  and  so  many  others  of  his  class 
the  core  of  the  nation.  In  the  unostentatious  conduct 
of  their  own  affairs,  to  the  neglect  of  everything  else, 
they  typified  the  essential  individualism,  born  in  the 
Briton  from  the  natural  isolation  of  his  country's  life. 

The  dog  Balthasar  sniffed  round  the  edges  of  his 
trousers;  this  friendly  and  cynical  mongrel — offspring 
of  a  liaison  between  a  Russian  poodle  and  a  fox-terrier — 
had  a  nose  for  the  unusual. 

The  strange  greetings  over,  old  Jolyon  seated  himself 
in  a  wicker  chair,  and  his  two  grandchildren,  one  on 
each  side  of  his  knees,  looked  at  him  silently,  never 
having  seen  so  old  a  man. 


Old  Jolyon's  Peccadillo  97 

They  were  unlike,  as  though  recognising  the  difference 
set  between  them  by  the  circumstances  of  their  births. 
Jolly,  the  child  of  sin,  pudgy-faced,  with  his  tow-coloured 
hair  brushed  off  his  forehead,  and  a  dimple  in  his  chin, 
had  an  air  of  stubborn  amiability,  and  the  eyes  of  a 
Forsyte;  little  Holly,  the  child  of  wedlock,  was  a  dark- 
skinned,  solemn  soul,  with  her  mother's  grey  and  wistful 
eyes. 

The  dog  Balthasar,  having  walked  round  the  three 
small  flower-beds,  to  show  his  extreme  contempt  for 
things  at  large,  had  also  taken  a  seat  in  front  of  old 
Jolyon,  and,  oscillating  a  tail  curled  by  Nature  tightly 
over  his  back,  was  staring  up  with  eyes  that  did  not 
blink. 

Even  in  the  garden,  that  sense  of  things  being  pokey 
haunted  old  Jolyon ;  the  wicker  chair  creaked  under  his 
weight;  the  garden-beds  looked  " da verdy";  on  the  far 
side,  under  the  smut-stained  wall,  cats  had  made  a  path. 

While  he  and  his  grandchildren  thus  regarded  each 
other  with  the  peculiar  scrutiny,  curious  yet  trustful, 
that  passes  between  the  very  young  and  the  very  old, 
young  Jolyon  watched  his  wife. 

The  colour  had  deepened  in  her  thin,  oval  face,  with 
its  straight  brows,  and  large,  grey  eyes.  Her  hair, 
brushed  in  fine,  high  curves  back  from  her  forehead, 
was  going  grey,  like  his  own,  and  this  greyness  made 
the  sudden  vivid  colour  in  her  cheeks  painfully  pathetic. 

The  look  on  her  face,  such  as  he  had  never  seen  there 
before,  such  as  she  had  always  hidden  from  him,  was 
full  of  secret  resentments,  and  longings,  and  fears. 
Her  eyes,  under  their  twitching  brows,  stared  painfully. 
And  she  was  silent. 

Jolly  alone  sustained  the  conversation;  he  had  many 
possessions,  and  was  anxious  that  his  unknown  friend 
with  extremely  large  moustaches,  and  hands  all  covered 


98  The  Man  of  Property 

with  blue  veins,  who  sat  with  legs  crossed  like  his  own 
father  (a  habit  he  was  himself  trying  to  acquire) ,  should 
know  it;  but  being  a  Forsyte,  though  not  yet  quite  nine 
years  old,  he  made  no  mention  of  the  thing  at  the 
moment  dearest  to  his  heart — a  camp  of  soldiers  in  a 
shop-window,  which  his  father  had  promised  to  buy. 
No  doubt  it  seemed  to  him  too  precious — a  tempting  of 
Providence  to  mention  it  yet. 

And  the  sunlight  played  through  the  leaves  on  that 
little  party  of  the  three  generations  grouped  tranquilly 
under  the  pear-tree,  which  had  long  borne  no  fruit. 

Old  Jolyon's  furrowed  face  was  reddening  patchily, 
as  old  men's  faces  redden  in  the  sun.  He  took  one  of 
Jolly's  hands  in  his  own;  the  boy  climbed  on  to  his 
knee;  and  little  Holly,  mesmerised  by  this  sight,  crept 
up  to  them;  the  sound  of  the  dog  Balthasar's  scratching 
arose  rhythmically. 

Suddenly  young  Mrs.  Jolyon  got  up  and  hurried 
indoors.  A  minute  later  her  husband  muttered  an 
excuse,  and  followed.  Old  Jolyon  was  left  alone  with 
his  grandchildren. 

And  Nature  with  her  quaint  irony  began  working  in 
him  one  of  her  strange  revolutions,  following  her  cyclic 
laws  into  the  depths  of  his  heart.  And  that  tenderness 
for  little  children,  that  passion  for  the  beginnings  of  life 
which  had  once  made  him  forsake  his  son  and  follow 
June,  now  worked  in  him  to  forsake  June  and  follow 
these  littler  things.  Youth,  like  a  flame,  burned  ever 
in  his  breast,  and  to  youth  he  turned,  to  the  round 
little  limbs,  so  reckless,  that  wanted  care,  to  the  small 
round  faces  so  unreasonably  solemn  or  bright,  to  the 
treble  tongues,  and  the  shrill,  chuckling  laughter,  to 
the  insistent  tugging  hands,  and  the  feel  of  small  bodies 
against  his  legs,  to  all  that  was  young  and  young,  and 
once  more  young.  And  his  eyes  grew  soft,  his  voice, 


Old  Jolyon's  Peccadillo  99 

and  thin,  veined  hands  soft,  and  soft  his  heart  within 
him.  And  to  those  small  creatures  he  became  at  once  a 
place  of  pleasure,  a  place  where  they  were  secure,  and 
could  talk  and  laugh  and  play;  till,  like  sunshine,  there 
radiated  from  old  Jolyon's  wicker  chair  the  perfect 
gaiety  of  three  hearts. 

But  with  young  Jolyon  following  to  his  wife's  room 
it  was  different. 

He  found  her  seated  on  a  chair  before  her  dressing- 
glass,  with  her  hands  before  her  face. 

Her  shoulders  were  shaking  with  sobs.  This  passion 
of  hers  for  suffering  was  mysterious  to  him.  He  had 
been  through  a  hundred  of  these  moods;  how  he  had 
survived  them  he  never  knew,  for  he  could  never  believe 
they  were  moods,  and  that  the  last  hour  of  his  partner- 
ship had  not  struck. 

In  the  night  she  would  be  sure  to  throw  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  say:  "Oh!  Jo,  how  I  make  you 
suffer!"  as  she  had  done  a  hundred  times  before. 

He  reached  out  his  hand,  and,  unseen,  slipped  his 
razor  case  into  his  pocket. 

"I  can't  stay  here,"  he  thought,  "I  must  go  down!" 
Without  a  word  he  left  the  room,  and  went  back  to  the 
lawn. 

Old  Jolyon  had  : little  Holly  on  his  knee;  she  had 
taken  possession  of  his  watch;  Jolly,  very  red  in  the 
face,  was  trying  to  show  that  he  could  stand  on  his 
head.  The  dog  Balthasar,  as  close  as  might  be  to  the 
tea-table,  had  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  cake. 

Young  Jolyon  felt  a  malicious  desire  to  cut  their 
enjoyment  short. 

What  business  had  his  father  to  come  and  upset  his 
wife  like  this?  It  was  a  shock,  after  all  these  years! 
He  ought  to  have  known;  he  ought  to  have  given  them 
warning;  but  when  did  a  Forsyte  ever  imagine  that 


ioo  The  Man  of  Property 

his  conduct  should  upset  anybody!  And  in  his  thoughts 
he  did  old  Jolyon  wrong. 

He  spoke  sharply  to  the  children,  and  told  them  to  go 
in  to  their  tea.  Greatly  surprised,  for  they  had  never 
heard  their  father  speak  sharply  before,  they  went  off, 
hand  in  hand,  little  Holly  looking  back  over  her 
shoulder. 

Young  Jolyon  poured  out  the  tea. 

"My  wife's  not  the  thing  to-day,"  he  said,  but  he 
knew  well  enough  that  his  father  had  penetrated  the 
cause  of  that  sudden  withdrawal,  and  almost  hated  the 
old  man  for  sitting  there  so  calmly. 

"You  've  got  a  nice  little  house  here,"  said  old  Jolyon 
with  a  shrewd  look;  "I  suppose  you've  taken  a  lease 
of  it!" 

Young  Jolyon  nodded. 

"I  don't  like  the  neighbourhood, "  said  old  Jolyon; 
"a  ramshackle  lot." 

Young  Jolyon  replied:  "Yes,  we  're  a  ramshackle  lot." 

The  silence  was  now  only  broken  by  the  sound  of  the 
dog  Balthasar's  scratching. 

Old  Jolyon  said  simply:  "I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to 
have  come  here,  Jo;  but  I  get  so  lonely!" 

At  these  words  young  Jolyon  got  up  and  put  his  hand 
on  his  father's  shoulder. 

In  the  next  house  some  one  was  playing  over  and 
over  again  La  Donna  b  mobile  on  an  untuned  piano; 
and  the  little  garden  had  fallen  into  shade,  the  sun  now 
only  reached  the  wall  at  the  end,  whereon  basked  a 
crouching  cat,  her  yellow  eyes  turned  sleepily  down  on 
the  dog  Balthasar.  There  was  a  drowsy  hum  of  very 
distant  traffic;  the  creepered  trellis  round  the  garden 
shut  out  everything  but  sky,  and  house,  and  pear-tree, 
with  its  top  branches  still  gilded  by  the  sun. 

For  some   time   they   sat   there,   talking  but   little. 


Old  Jolyon's  Peccadillo  101 

Then  old  Jolyon  rose  to  go,  and  not  a  word  was  said 
about  his  coming  again. 

He  walked  away  very  sadly.  What  a  poor  miserable 
place  ;  and  he  thought  of  the  great,  empty  house  in 
Stanhope  Gate,  fit  residence  for  a  Forsyte,  with  its  huge 
billiard-room  and  drawing-room  that  no  one  entered 
from  one  week's  end  to  another. 

That  woman,  whose  face  he  had  rather  liked,  was 
too  thin-skinned  by  half;  she  gave  Jo  a  bad  time  he 
knew!  And  those  sweet  children!  Ah!  what  a  piece 
of  awful  folly! 

He  walked  towards  the  Edgware  Road,  between  rows 
of  little  houses,  all  suggesting  to  him  (erroneously  no 
doubt,  but  the  prejudices  of  a  Forsyte  are  sacred) 
shady  histories  of  some  sort  or  kind. 

Society,  forsooth,  the  chattering  hags  and  jackanapes, 
had  set  themselves  up  to  pass  judgment  on  his  flesh 
and  blood!  A  parcel  of  old  women!  He  stumped  his 
umbrella  on  the  ground,  as  though  to  drive  it  into  the 
heart  of  that  unfortunate  body,  which  had  dared  to 
ostracise  his  son  and  his  son's  son,  in  whom  he  could 
have  lived  again! 

He  stumped  his  umbrella  fiercely;  yet  he  himself 
had  followed  Society's  behaviour  for  fifteen  years — had 
only  to-day  been  false  to  it! 

He  thought  of  June,  and  her  dead  mother,  and  the  whole 
story,  with  all  his  old  bitterness.  A  wretched  business! 

He  was  a  long  time  reaching  Stanhope  Gate,  for, 
with  native  perversity,  being  extremely  tired,  he  walked 
the  whole  way. 

After  washing  his  hands  in  the  lavatory  downstairs,  he 
went  to  the  dining-room  to  wait  for  dinner,  the  only 
room  he  used  when  June  was  out — it  was  less  lonely  so. 
The  evening  paper  had  not  yet  come ;  he  had  finished  the 
Times,  there  was  therefore  nothing  to  do. 


102  The  Man  of  Property 

The  room  faced  the  backwater  of  traffic,  and  was 
very  silent.  He  disliked  dogs,  but  a  dog  even  would 
have  been  company.  His  gaze,  travelling  round  the 
walls,  rested  on  a  picture  entitled:  Group  of  Dutch 
Fishing  Boats  at  Sunset ;  the  chef  d1  (euvre  of  his  col- 
lection. It  gave  him  no  pleasure.  He  closed  his  eyes. 
He  was  lonely!  He  oughtn't  to  complain,  he  knew, 
but  he  couldn't  help  it.  He  was  a  poor  thing — had 
always  been  a  poor  thing — no  pluck!  Such  was  his 
thought. 

The  butler  came  to  lay  the  table  for  dinner,  and 
seeing  his  master  apparently  asleep,  exercised  extreme 
caution  in  his  movements.  This  bearded  man  also 
wore  a  moustache,  which  had  given  rise  to  grave  doubts 
in  the  minds  of  many  members  of  the  family — especially 
those  who,  like  Soames,  had  been  to  public  schools, 
and  were  accustomed  to  niceness  in  such  matters. 
Could  he  really  be  considered  a  butler?  Playful  spirits 
alluded  to  him  as:  "Uncle  Jolyon's  Non-conformist"  ; 
George,  the  acknowledged  wag,  had  named  him 
"  Sankey." 

He  moved  to  and  fro  between  the  great  polished  side- 
board and  the  great  polished  table  inimitably  sbek 
and  soft. 

Old  Jolyon  watched  him,  feigning  sleep.  The  fellow 
was  a  sneak — he  had  always  thought  so — who  cared 
about  nothing  but  rattling  through  his  work,  and 
getting  out  to  his  betting  or  his  woman  or  goodness 
knew  what!  A  slug!  Fat  too!  And  didn't  care  a 
pin  about  his  master! 

But  then,  against  his  will,  came  one  of  those  moments 
of  philosophy  which  made  old  Jolyon  different  from 
other  Forsytes. 

After  all  why  should  the  man  care?  He  wasn't  paid 
to  care,  and  why  expect  it?  In  this  world  people 


Old  Jolyon's  Peccadillo  103 

wouldn't  look  for  affection  unless  they  paid  for  it.  It 
might  be  different  in  the  next — he  dicfn't  know,  he 
could  n't  tell!  And  again  he  shut  his  eyes. 

Relentless  and  stealthy,  the  butler  pursued  his  labours, 
taking  things  from  the  various  compartments  of  the 
sideboard.  His  back  seemed  always  turned  to  old 
Jolyon;  thus  he  robbed  his  operations  of  the  unseemli- 
ness of  being  carried  on  in  his  master's  presence;  now 
and  then  he  furtively  breathed  on  the  silver,  and  wiped 
it  with  a  piece  of  chamois  leather.  He  appeared  to  pore 
over  the  quantities  of  wine  in  the  decanters,  which  he 
carried  carefully  and  rather  high,  letting  his  beard  droop 
over  them  protectingly.  When  he  had  finished,  he 
stood  for  over  a  minute  watching  his  master,  and  in  his 
greenish  eyes  there  was  a  look  of  contempt.  After  all, 
this  master  of  his  was  an  old  buffer,  who  hadn't  much 
left  in  him! 

Soft  as  a  tom-cat,  he  crossed  the  room  to  press  the 
bell.  His  orders  were  "dinner  at  seven."  What  if  his 
master  were  asleep ;  he  would  soon  have  him  out  of  that ; 
there  was  the  night  to  sleep  in!  He  had  himself  to 
think  of,  for  he  was  due  at  his  Club  at  half -past  eight! 

In  answer  to  the  ring,  appeared  a  page  boy  with  a 
silver  soup  tureen.  The  butler  took  it  from  his  hands 
and  placed  it  on  the  table,  then,  standing  by  the  open 
door,  as  though  about  to  usher  company  into  the  room, 
he  said  in  a  solemn  voice: 

"Dinner  is  on  the  table,  sir!" 

Slowly  old  Jolyon  got  up  out  of  his  chair,  and  sat  down 
at  the  table  to  eat  his  dinner. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PLANS  OP  THE  HOUSE 

ALL  Forsytes,  as  is  generally  admitted,  have  shells 
like  that  extremely  useful  little  animal  which 
is  made  into  Turkish  delight;  in  other  words,  they 
are  never  seen,  or  if  seen  would  not  be  recognised, 
without  habitats,  composed  of  circumstance,  property, 
acquaintances,  and  wives,  which  seem  to  move  along 
with  them  in  their  passage  through  a  world  composed 
of  thousands  of  other  Forsytes  with  their  habitats. 
Without  a  habitat  a  Forsyte  is  inconceivable — he  would 
be  like  a  novel  without  a  plot,  which  is  well  known  to  be 
an  anomaly. 

To  Forsyte  eyes  Bosinney  appeared  to  have  no 
habitat,  he  seemed  one  of  those  rare  and  unfortunate 
men  who  go  through  life  surrounded  by  circumstance, 
property,  acquaintances,  and  wives  that  do  not  belong 
to  them. 

His  rooms  in  Sloane  Street,  on  the  top  floor,  outside 
which,  on  a  plate,  was  his  name, "Philip  Baynes  Bosin- 
ney, Architect,"  were  not  those  of  a  Forsyte.  He  had 
no  sitting-room  apart  from  his  office,  but  a  large  recess 
had  been  screened  off  to  conceal  the  necessaries  of  life : 
a  couch,  an  easy  chair,  his  pipes,  spirit  case,  novels, 
and  slippers.  The  business  part  of  the  room  had  the 
usual  furniture:  an  open  cupboard  with  pigeon-holes, 
a  round  oak  table,  a  folding  wash-stand,  some  hard  chairs, 

104 


Plans  of  the  House  105 

a  standing  desk  of  large  dimensions  covered  with  draw- 
ings and  designs.  June  had  twice  been  to  tea  there  under 
the  chaperonage  of  his  aunt. 

He  was  believed  to  have  a  bedroom  at  the  back. 

As  far  as  the  family  had  been  able  to  ascertain  his 
income,  it  consisted  of  two  consulting  appointments  at 
twenty  pounds  a  year,  together  with  an  odd  fee  once 
in  a  way,  and — more  worthy  item — a  private  annuity 
under  his  father's  will  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
a  year. 

What  had  transpired  concerning  that  father  was  not 
so  reassuring.  It  appeared  that  he  had  been  a  Lin- 
colnshire country  doctor  of  Cornish  extraction,  striking 
appearance,  and  Byronic  tendencies — a  well-known 
figure,  in  fact,  in  his  county.  Bosinney's  uncle  by 
marriage,  Baynes,  of  Baynes  and  Bildeboy,  a  Forsyte  in 
instincts  if  not  in  name,  had  but  little  that  was  worthy 
to  relate  of  his  brother-in-law. 

"An  odd  fellow!"  he  would  say;  "always  spoke  of 
his  three  eldest  boys  as  'good  creatures,  but  so  dull'; 
they  're  all  doing  capitally  in  the  Indian  Civil!  Philip 
was  the  only  one  he  liked.  I  've  heard  him  talk  in  the 
queerest  way;  he  once  said  to  me:  'My  dear  fellow, 
never  let  your  poor  wife  know  what  you  're  thinking  of! ' 
But  I  didn't  follow  his  advice;  not  I!  An  eccentric 
man!  He  would  say  to  Phil:  'Whether  you  live  like 
a  gentleman  or  not,  my  boy,  be  sure  you  die  like  one!' 
and  he  had  himself  embalmed  in  a  frock-coat  suit,  with 
a  satin  cravat  and  a  diamond  pin.  Oh,  quite  an  original, 
I  can  assure  you! " 

Of  Bosinney  himself  Baynes  would  speak  warmly, 
with  a  certain  compassion:  "He  's  got  a  streak  of  his 
father's  Byronism.  Why,  look  at  the  way  he  threw  up 
his  chances  when  he  left  my  office;  going  off  like  that 
for  six  months  with  a  knapsack,  and  all  for  what? — 


io6  The  Man  of  Property 

to  study  foreign  architecture — foreign!  What  could  he 
expect?  And  there  he  is — a  clever  young  fellow — 
doesn't  make  his  hundred  a  year!  Now  this  engage- 
ment is  the  best  thing  that  could  have  happened — keep 
him  steady ;  he  's  one  of  those  that  go  to  bed  all  day  and 
stay  up  all  night,  simply  because  they  've  no  method; 
but  no  vice  about  him — not  an  ounce  of  vice.  Old 
Forsyte  's  a  rich  man!" 

Mr.  Baynes  made  himself  extremely  pleasant  to  June, 
who  frequently  visited  his  house  in  Lowndes  Square 
at  this  period. 

"This  house  of  Mr.  Soames's — what  a  capital  man 
of  business — is  the  very  thing  for  Philip,"  he  would  say 
to  her;  "you  mustn't  expect  to  see  too  much  of  him 
just  now,  my  dear  young  lady.  The  good  cause — the 
good  cause!  The  young  man  must  make  his  way. 
When  I  was  his  age  I  was  at  work  day  and  night.  My 
dear  wife  used  to  say  to  me,  '  Bobby,  don 't  work  too 
hard,  think  of  your  health' ;  but  I  never  spared  myself! " 

June  had  complained  that  her  lover  found  no  time  to 
come  to  Stanhope  Gate. 

The  first  time  he  came  again  they  had  not  been 
together  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before,  by  one  of  those 
coincidences  of  which  she  was  a  mistress,  Mrs.  Septimus 
Small  arrived.  Thereon  Bosinney  rose  and  hid  himself, 
according  to  previous  arrangement,  in  the  little  study, 
to  wait  for  her  departure. 

"My  dear,"  said  Aunt  Juley,  "how  thin  he  is!  I  've 
often  noticed  it  with  engaged  people;  but  you  mustn't 
let  it  get  worse.  There  's  Barlow's  Extract  of  Veal; 
it  did  your  Uncle  Swithin  a  lot  of  good." 

June,  her  little  figure  erect  before  the  hearth,  her 
small  face  quivering  grimly,  for  she  regarded  her  aunt's 
untimely  visit  in  the  light  of  a  personal  injury,  replied 
with  scorn: 


Plans  of  the  House  107 

"  It  's  because  he  's  busy;  people  who  can  do  anything 
worth  doing  are  never  fat!" 

Aunt  Juley  pouted;  she  herself  had  always  been  thin, 
but  the  only  pleasure  she  derived  from  the  fact  was  the 
opportunity  of  longing  to  be  stouter. 

"I  don't  think,"  she  said  mournfully,  "that  you 
ought  to  let  them  call  him  'The  Buccaneer';  people 
might  think  it  odd,  now  that  he  's  going  to  build  a  house 
for  Soames.  I  do  hope  he  will  be  careful ;  it 's  so  im- 
portant for  him;  Soames  has  such  good  taste! " 

"Taste! "  cried  June,  flaring  up  at  once;  " I  wouldn't 
give  that  for  his  taste,  or  any  of  the  family's!" 

Mrs.  Small  was  taken  aback. 

"Your  Uncle  S  within, "  she  said,  "  always  had  beautiful 
taste!  And  Soames's  little  house  is  lovely;  you  don't 
mean  to  say  you  don't  think  so!  " 

"H'mph!"  said  June,  "that's  only  because  Irene's 
there!" 

Aunt  Juley  tried  to  say  something  pleasant: 

"And  how  will  dear  Irene  like  living  in  the  country?" 

June  gazed  at  her  intently,  with  a  look  in  her  eyes  as 
if  her  conscience  had  suddenly  leaped  up  into  them ;  it 
passed;  and  an  even  more  intent  look  took  its  place,  as 
if  she  had  stared  that  conscience  out  of  countenance. 
She  replied  imperiously: 

"Of  course  she  '11  like  it;  why  shouldn't  she?" 

Mrs.  Small  grew  nervous. 

"I  didn't  know,"  she  said;  "I  thought  she  might  n't 
like  to  leave  her  friends.  Your  Uncle  James  says  she 
doesn't  take  enough  interest  in  life.  We  think — I 
mean  Timothy  thinks — she  ought  to  go  out  more.  I 
expect  you'll  miss  her  very  much!" 

June  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  neck. 

"I  do  wish,"  she  cried,  " Uncle  Timothy  wouldn't 
talk  about  what  doesn't  concern  him!" 


io8  The  Man  of  Property 

Aunt  Juley  rose  to  the  full  height  of  her  tall  figure. 

"He  never  talks  about  what  doesn't  concern  him," 
she  said. 

June  was  instantly  compunctious;  she  ran  to  her 
aunt  and  kissed  her. 

''I'm  very  sorry,  auntie;  but  I  wish  they  'd  let  Irene 
alone." 

Aunt  Juley,  unable  to  think  of  anything  further  on 
the  subject  that  would  be  suitable,  was  silent;  she 
prepared  for  departure,  hooking  her  black  silk  cape 
across  her  chest,  and  taking  up  her  green  reticule. 

"And  how  is  your  dear  grandfather?"  she  asked 
in  the  hall;  "I  expect  he's  very  lonely  now  that  all 
your  time  is  taken  up  with  Mr.  Bosinney."  She  bent 
and  kissed  her  niece  hungrily,  and  with  little,  mincing 
steps  passed  away. 

The  tears  sprang  up  in  June's  eyes;  running  into  the 
little  study,  where  Bosinney  was  sitting  at  the  table 
drawing  birds  on  the  back  of  an  envelope,  she  sank 
down  by  his  side  and  cried: 

"Oh,  Phil!  it  's  all  so  horrid!"  Her  heart  was  as 
warm  as  the  colour  of  her  hair. 

On  the  following  Sunday  morning,  while  Soames 
was  shaving,  a  message  was  brought  him  to  the  effect 
that  Mr.  Bosinney  was  below,  and  would  be  glad  to  see 
him.  Opening  the  door  into  his  wife's  room,  he 
said: 

"  Bosinney  's  downstairs.  Just  go  and  entertain 
him  while  I  finish  shaving.  I  '11  be  down  in  a  minute. 
It  's  about  the  plans,  I  expect." 

Irene  looked  at  him,  without  reply,  put  the  finishing 
touch  to  her  dress,  and  went  down-stairs. 

He  could  not  make  her  out  about  this  house.  She 
had  said  nothing  against  it,  and,  as  far  as  Bosinney 
was  concerned,  seemed  friendly  enough. 


Plans  of  the  House  109 

From  the  window  of  his  dressing-room  he  could  see 
tnem  talking  together  in  the  little  court  below. 

He  hurried  on  with  his  shaving,  cutting  his  chin  twice. 
He  heard  them  laugh,  and  thought  to  himself:  "Well, 
they  get  on  all  right,  anyway! " 

As  he  expected,  Bosinney  had  come  round  to  fetch 
him  to  look  at  the  plans. 

He  took  his  hat  and  went  over. 

The  plans  were  spread  on  the  oak  table  in  the  archi- 
tect's room;  and,  pale,  imperturbable,  inquiring,  Soames 
bent  over  them  for  a  long  time  without  speaking. 

He  said  at  last  in  a  puzzled  voice: 

"It  's  an  odd  sort  of  house!" 

A  rectangular  house  of  two  stories  was  designed  in 
a  quadrangle  round  a  covered-in  court.  This  court, 
encircled  by  a  gallery  on  the  upper  floor,  was  roofed 
with  a  glass  roof,  supported  by  eight  columns  running 
up  from  the  ground. 

It  was  indeed,  to  Forsyte  eyes,  an  odd  house. 

"There's  a  lot  of  room  cut  to  waste, "  pursued  Soames. 

Bosinney  began  to  walk  about,  and  Soames  did  not 
like  the  expression  on  his  face. 

"The  principle  of  this  house,"  said  the  architect, 
"was  that  you  should  have  room  to  breathe — like  a 
gentleman!" 

Soames  extended  his  ringer  and  thumb,  as  if  measuring 
the  extent  of  the  distinction  he  should  acquire,  and 
replied: 

"Oh,  yes;    I  see/' 

The  peculiar  look  came  into  Bosinney 's  face  which 
marked  all  his  enthusiasms. 

"I  've  tried  to  plan  you  a  house  here  with  some  self- 
respect  of  its  own.  If  you  don't  like  it,  you  'd  better  say 
so.  It  's  certainly  the  last  thing  to  be  considered — who 
wants  self-respect  in  a  house,  when  you  can  squeeze 


1 10  The  Man  of  Property 

in  an  extra  lavatory?"  He  put  his  finger  suddenly 
down  on  the  left  division  of  the  centre  oblong:  "You 
can  swing  a  cat  here.  This  is  for  your  pictures,  divided 
from  this  court  by  curtains;  draw  them  back  and  you  '11 
have  a  space  of  fifty-one  by  twenty-three  six.  This 
double-faced  stove  in  the  centre,  here,  looks  one  way 
towards  the  court,  one  way  towards  the  picture  room; 
this  end  wall  is  all  window;  you  've  a  south-east  light 
from  that,  a  north  light  from  the  court.  The  rest  of 
your  pictures  you  can  hang  round  the  gallery  upstairs, 
or  in  the  other  rooms.  In  architecture,"  he  went  on — 
and  though  looking  at  Soames  he  did  not  seem  to  see  him, 
which  gave  Soames  an  unpleasant  feeling, — "as  in  life, 
you'll  get  no  self-respect  without  regularity.  Fellows 
tell  you  that  's  old-fashioned.  It  appears  to  be  peculiar 
any  way;  it  never  occurs  to  us  to  embody  the  main 
principle  of  life  in  our  buildings ;  we  load  our  houses  with 
decoration,  gimcracks,  corners,  anything  to  distract 
the  eye.  On  the  contrary  the  eye  should  rest;  get 
your  effects  with  a  few  strong  lines.  The  whole  thing  is 
regularity — there  's  no  self-respect  without  it." 

Soames,  the  unconscious  ironist,  fixed  his  gaze  on 
Bosinney's  tie,  which  was  far  from  being  in  the  per- 
pendicular; he  was  unshaven,  too,  and  his  dress  not 
remarkable  for  order.  Architecture  appeared  to  have 
exhausted  his  regularity. 

"Won't  it  look  like  a  barrack?"  he  inquired. 

He  did  not  at  once  receive  a  reply. 

"I  can  see  what  it  is,"  said  Bosinney,  "you  want  one 
of  Littlemaster's  houses — one  of  the  pretty  and  com- 
modious sort,  where  the  servants  will  live  in  garrets, 
and  the  front  door  be  sunk  so  that  you  may  come  up 
again.  By  all  means  try  Littlemaster,  you  '11  find  him 
a  capital  fellow,  I  've  known  him  all  my  life! " 

Soames  was  alarmed.     He  had  really  been   struck 


Plans  of  the  House  1 1 1 

by  the  plans,  and  the  concealment  of  his  satisfaction 
had  been  merely  instinctive.  It  was  difficult  for  him 
to  pay  a  compliment.  He  despised  people  who  were 
lavish  with  their  praises. 

He  found  himself  now  in  the  embarrassing  position  of 
one  who  must  pay  a  compliment  or  run  the  risk  of 
losing  a  good  thing.  Bosinney  was  just  the  fellow  who 
might  tear  up  the  plans  and  refuse  to  act  for  him;  a 
kind  of  grown-up  child! 

This  grown-up  childishness,  to  which  he  felt  so  superior 
exercised  a  peculiar  and  almost  mesmeric  effect  on 
Soames,  for  he  had  never  felt  anything  like  it  in  himself. 

"Well,"  he  stammered  at  last,  "it  's — it's  certainly 
original." 

He  had  such  a  private  disgust  and  even  dislike  of  the 
word  "  original  "  that  he  felt  he  had  not  really  given  him- 
self away  by  this  remark. 

Bosinney  seemed  pleased.  It  was  the  sort  of  thing 
that  would  please  a  fellow  like  that!  And  his  success 
encouraged  Soames. 

"It  's — a  big  place,"  he  said. 

"Space,  air,  light,"  he  heard  Bosinney  murmur, 
"you  can't  live  like  a  gentleman  in  one  of  Littlemaster's 
— he  builds  for  manufacturers." 

Soames  made  a  deprecating  movement;  he  had  been 
identified  with  a  gentleman;  not  for  a  good  deal  of 
money  now  would  he  be  classed  with  manufacturers. 
But  his  innate  distrust  of  general  principles  revived. 
What  the  deuce  was  the  good  of  talking  about  regularity 
and  self-respect?  It  looked  to  him  as  if  the  house 
would  be  cold. 

"  Irene  can't  stand  the  cold!  "  he  said. 

"Ah!"  said  Bosinney  sarcastically.  "Your  wife? 
She  doesn't  like  the  cold?  I  '11  see  to  that;  she  sha'n't 
be  cold.  Look  here! "  he  pointed  to  four  marks  at 


1 1 2  The  Man  of  Property 

regular  intervals  on  the  walls  of  the  court.  "  I  've  given 
you  hot-water  pipes  in  aluminum  casings;  you  can 
get  them  with  very  good  designs." 

Soames  looked  suspiciously  at  these  marks. 

"It  's  all  very  well,  all  this,"  he  said,  "but  what  's  it 
going  to  cost?" 

The  architect  took  a  sheet  of  paper  from  his  pocket : 

"The  house,  of  course,  should  be  built  entirely  of 
stone,  but,  as  I  thought  you  would  n't  stand  that,  I  've 
compromised  for  a  facing.  It  ought  to  have  a  copper 
roof,  but  I  've  made  it  green  slate.  As  it  is,  including 
metal  work,  it  '11  cost  you  eight  thousand  five  hundred." 

"  Eight  thousand  five  hundred  ? ' '  said  Soames.  * '  Why, 
I  gave  you  an  outside  limit  of  eight! " 

"Can't  be  done  for  a  penny  less,"  replied  Bosinney 
coolly.  "You  must  take  it  or  leave  it!" 

It  was  the  only  way,  probably,  that  such  a  proposition 
could  have  been  made  to  Soames.  He  was  nonplussed. 
Conscience  told  him  to  throw  the  whole  thing  up.  But 
the  design  was  good,  and  he  knew  it — there  was  com- 
pleteness about  it,  and  dignity;  the  servants'  apartments 
were  excellent  too.  He  would  gain  credit  by  living  in 
a  house  like  that — with  such  individual  features,  yet 
perfectly  well-arranged. 

He  continued  poring  over  the  plans,  while  Bosinney 
went  into  his  bedroom  to  shave  and  dress. 

The  two  walked  back  to  Montpellier  Square  in  silence, 
Soames  watching  him  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye. 

The  Buccaneer  was  rather  a  good-looking  fellow — so 
he  thought — when  he  was  properly  got  up. 

Irene  was  bending  over  her  flowers  when  the  two 
men  came  in. 

She  spoke  of  sending  across  the  Park  to  fetch  June. 

"No,  no,"  said  Soames,  "we  've  still  got  business  to 
talkoverl" 


Plans  of  the  House  113 

At  lunch  he  was  almost  cordial,  and  kept  pressing 
Bosinney  to  eat.  He  was  pleased  to  see  the  architect 
in  such  high  spirits,  and  left  him  to  spend  the  afternoon 
with  Irene,  while  he  stole  off  to  his  pictures,  after  his 
Sunday  habit.  At  tea-time  he  came  down  to  the 
drawing-room,  and  found  them  talking,  as  he  expressed 
it,  nineteen  to  the  dozen. 

Unobserved  in  the  doorway,  he  congratulated  him- 
self that  things  were  taking  the  right  turn.  It  was 
lucky  she  and  Bosinney  got  on;  she  seemed  to  be  falling 
into  line  with  the  idea  of  the  new  house. 

Quiet  meditation  among  his  pictures  had  decided  him 
to  spring  the  five  hundred  if  necessary;  but  he  hoped 
that  the  afternoon  might  have  softened  Bosinney's  esti- 
mates. It  was  so  purely  a  matter  which  Bosinney  could 
remedy  if  he  liked;  there  must  be  a  dozen  ways  in 
which  he  could  cheapen  the  production  of  a  house 
without  spoiling  the  effect. 

He  awaited,  therefore,  his  opportunity  till  Irene  was 
handing  the  architect  his  first  cup  of  tea.  A  chink  of 
sunshine  through  the  lace  of  the  blinds  warmed  her 
cheek,  shone  in  the  gold  of  her  hair,  and  in  her  soft  eyes. 
Possibly  the  same  gleam  deepened  Bosinney's  colour, 
and  gave  the  rather  startled  look  to  his  face. 

Soames  hated  sunshine,  and  he  at  once  got  up  to 
draw  the  blind.  Then  he  took  his  own  cup  of  tea  from 
his  wife,  and  said,  more  coldly  than  he  had  intended: 

"Can't  you  see  your  way  to  do  it  for  eight  thousand 
after  all?  There  must  be  a  lot  of  little  things  you  could 
alter." 

Bosinney  drank  off  his  tea  at  a  gulp,  put  down  his  cup, 
and  answered: 

"Not  one!" 

Soames  saw  that  his  suggestion  had  touched  some 
unintelligible  point  of  personal  vanity. 


1 14  The;  Man  of  Property 

"Well,"  he  agreed,  with  sulky  resignation,  "you 
must  have  it  your  own  way,  I  suppose." 

A  few  minutes  later  Bosinney  rose  to  go,  and  Soames 
rose  too,  to  see  him  off  the  premises.  The  architect 
seemed  in  absurdly  high  spirits.  After  watching  him 
walk  away  at  a  swinging  pace,  Soames  returned  moodily 
to  .  the  drawing-room,  where  Irene  was  putting  away 
the  music,  and,  moved  by  an  uncontrollable  spasm  of 
curiosity,  he  asked: 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  '  The  Buccaneer  '  ?  " 

He  looked  at  the  carpet  while  waiting  for  her  answer, 
and  he  had  to  wait  some  time. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  at  last. 

"Do  you  think  he's  good-looking?" 

Irene  smiled.  And  it  seemed  to  Soames  that  she 
was  mocking  him. 

' '  Yes, ' '  she  answered ;  ' '  very. ' ' 


CHAPTER  IX 

DEATH  OF  AUNT  ANN 

HPHERE  came  a  morning  at  the  end  of  September 
1  when  Aunt  Ann  was  unable  to  take  from  Smither's 
hands  the  insignia  of  personal  dignity.  After  one 
look  at  the  old  face,  the  doctor,  hurriedly  sent  for, 
announced  that  Miss  Forsyte  had  passed  away  in  her 
sleep. 

Aunts  Juley  and  Hester  were  overwhelmed  by  the 
shock.  They  had  never  imagined  such  an  ending. 
Indeed,  it  is  doubtful  whether  they  had  ever  realised 
that  an  ending  was  bound  to  come.  Secretly  they  felt  it 
unreasonable  of  Ann  to  have  left  them  like  this  without 
a  word,  without  even  a  struggle.  It  was  unlike  her. 

Perhaps  what  really  affected  them  so  profoundly  was 
the  thought  that  a  Forsyte  should  have  let  go  her  grasp 
on  life.  If  one,  then  why  not  all! 

It  was  a  full  hour  before  they  could  make  up  their 
minds  to  tell  Timothy.  If  only  it  could  be  kept  from 
him!  If  only  it  could  be  broken  to  him  by  degrees ! 

And  long  they  stood  outside  his  door  whispering 
together.  And  when  it  was  over  they  whispered 
together  again. 

He  would  feel  it  more,  they  were  afraid,  as  time  went 
on.  Still,  he  had  taken  it  better  than  could  have  been 
expected.  He  would  keep  his  bed,  of  course! 

They  separated,  crying  quietly. 

"5 


1 16  The  Man  of  Property 

Aunt  Juley  stayed  in  her  room,  prostrated  by  the 
blow.  Her  face,  discoloured  by  tears,  was  divided 
into  compartments  by  the  little  ridges  of  pouting  flesh 
which  had  swollen  with  emotion.  It  was  impossible 
to  conceive  of  life  without  Ann,  who  had  lived  with  her 
for  seventy-three  years,  broken  only  by  the  short  inter- 
regnum of  her  married  life,  which  seemed  now  so  unreal. 
At  fixed  intervals  she  went  to  her  drawer,  and  took  from 
beneath  the  lavender  bags  a  fresh  pocket-handkerchief. 
Her  warm  heart  could  not  bear  the  thought  that  Ann 
was  lying  so  cold. 

Aunt  Hester,  the  silent,  the  patient,  that  backwater 
of  the  family  energy,  sat  in  the  drawing-room,  where  the 
blinds  were  drawn;  and  she,  too,  had  wept  at  first,  but 
quietly,  without  visible  effect.  Her  guiding  principle, 
the  conservation  of  energy,  did  not  abandon  her  in 
sorrow.  She  sat,  slim,  motionless,  studying  the  grate, 
her  hands  idle  in  the  lap  of  her  black  silk  dress.  They 
would  want  to  rouse  her  into  doing  something,  no  doubt. 
As  if  there  were  any  good  in  that!  Doing  something 
would  not  bring  back  Ann!  Why  worry  her? 

Five  o'clock  brought  three  of  the  brothers,  Jolyon  and 
James  and  Swithin;  Nicholas  was  at  Yarmouth,  and 
Roger  had  a  bad  attack  of  gout.  Mrs.  Hayman  had 
been  by  herself  earlier  in  the  day,  and,  after  seeing  Ann, 
had  gone  away,  leaving  a  message  for  Timothy — which 
was  kept  from  him — that  she  ought  to  have  been  told 
sooner.  In  fact,  there  was  a  feeling  amongst  them  all 
that  they  ought  to  have  been  told  sooner,  as  though  they 
had  missed  something;  and  James  said: 

"I  knew  how  it  'd  be;  I  told  you  she  wouldn't  last 
through  the  summer." 

Aunt  Hester  made  no  reply;  it  was  nearly  October, 
but  what  was  the  good  of  arguing;  some  people  were 
never  satisfied. 


Death  of  Aunt  Ann  1 1 7 

She  sent  up  to  tell  her  sister  that  the  brothers  were 
there.  Mrs.  Small  came  down  at  once.  She  had  bathed 
her  face,  which  was  still  swollen,  and  though  she  looked 
severely  at  Swithin's  trousers,  for  they  were  of  light  blue 
—he  had  come  straight  from  the  Club,  where  the  news 
had  reached  him, — she  wore  a  more  cheerful  expression 
than  usual,  the  instinct  for  doing  the  wrong  thing  being 
even  now  too  strong  for  her. 

Presently  all  five  went  up  to  look  at  the  body.  Under 
the  pure  white  sheet  a  quilted  counterpane  had  been 
placed,  for  now,  more  than  ever,  Aunt  Ann  had  need 
of  warmth;  and,  the  pillows  removed,  her  spine  and 
head  rested  flat,  with  the  semblance  of  their  life-long 
inflexibility ;  the  coif  banding  the  top  of  her  brow  was 
drawn  on  either  side  to  the  level  of  the  ears,  and  between 
it  and  the  sheet  her  face,  almost  as  white,  was  turned 
with  closed  eyes  to  the  faces  of  her  brothers  and  sisters. 
In  its  extraordinary  peace  the  face  was  stronger  than 
ever,  nearly  all  bone  now  under  the  scarce-wrinkled 
parchment  of  skin — square  jaw  and  chin,  cheek-bones, 
forehead  with  hollow  temples,  chiselled  nose — the 
fortress  of  an  unconquerable  spirit  that  had  yielded  to 
death,  and  in  its  upward  sightlessness  seemed  trying 
to  regain  that  spirit,  to  regain  the  guardianship  it  had 
just  laid  down. 

S within  took  but  one  look  at  the  face,  and  left  the 
room;  the  sight,  he  said  afterwards,  made  him  very 
queer.  He  went  down-stairs  shaking  the  whole  house, 
and,  seizing  his  hat,  clambered  into  his  brougham, 
without  giving  any  directions  to  the  coachman.  He 
was  driven  home,  and  all  the  evening  sat  in  his  chair 
without  moving. 

He  could  take  nothing  for  dinner  but  a  partridge, 
with  an  imperial  pint  of  champagne. 

Old  Jolyon  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed,,  his  haadf 


1 1 8  The  Man  of  Property 

folded  in  front  of  him.  He  alone  of  those  in  the  room 
remembered  the  death  of  his  mother,  and  though  he 
looked  at  Ann,  it  was  of  that  he  was  thinking.  Ann 
was  an  old  woman,  but  death  had  come  to  her  at  last — 
death  came  to  all!  His  face  did  not  move,  his  gaze 
seemed  travelling  from  very  far. 

Aunt  Hester  stood  beside  him.  She  did  not  cry 
now,  tears  were  exhausted — her  nature  refused  to  per- 
mit a  further  escape  of  force;  she  twisted  her  hands, 
looking,  not  at  Ann,  but  from  side  to  side,  seeking 
some  way  of  escaping  the  effort  of  realisation. 

Of  all  the  brothers  and  sisters  James  manifested  the 
most  emotion.  Tears  rolled  down  the  parallel  furrows 
of  his  thin  face;  where  he  should  go  now  to  tell  his 
troubles  he  did  not  know;  Juley  was  no  good,  Hester 
worse  than  useless!  He  felt  Ann's  death  more  than 
he  had  ever  thought  he  should;  this  would  upset  him 
for  weeks! 

Presently  Aunt  Hester  stole  out,  and  Aunt  Juley 
began  moving  about,  doing  "what  was  necessary,"  so 
that  twice  she  knocked  against  something.  Old  Jolyon, 
roused  from  his  reverie,  that  reverie  of  the  long,  long 
past,  looked  sternly  at  her,  and  went  away.  James 
alone  was  left  by  the  bedside ;  glancing  stealthily  round, 
to  see  that  he  was  not  observed,  he  twisted  his  long  body 
down,  placed  a  kiss  on  the  dead  forehead,  then  he,  too, 
hastily  left  the  room.  Encountering  Smither  in  the 
hall,  he  began  to  ask  her  about  the  funeral,  and,  finding 
that  she  knew  nothing,  complained  bitterly  that,  if 
they  didn't  take  care,  everything  would  go  wrong.  She 
had  better  send  for  Mr.  Soames — he  knew  all  about  that 
sort  of  thing;  her  master  was  very  much  upset,  he 
supposed — he  would  want  looking  after;  as  for  her 
mistresses,  they  were  no  good — they  had  no  gumption  ! 
They  would  be  ill,  too,  he  should  n't  wonder.  She  had 


Death  of  Aunt  Ann  119 

better  send  for  the  doctor;  it  was  best  to  take  things  in 
time.  He  did  n  't  think  his  sister  Ann  had  had  the  best 
opinion;  if  she  'd  had  Blank  she  would  have  been  alive 
now.  Smither  might  send  to  Park  Lane  any  time  she 
wanted  advice.  Of  course,  his  carriage  was  at  their 
service  for  the  funeral.  He  supposed  she  had  n 't  such  a 
thing  as  a  glass  of  claret  and  a  biscuit — he  had  had  no 
lunch! 

The  days  before  the  funeral  passed  quietly.  It  had 
long  been  known,  of  course,  that  Aunt  Ann  had  left  her 
little  property  to  Timothy.  There  was,  therefore,  no 
reason  for  the  slightest  agitation.  Soames,  who  was 
sole  executor,  took  charge  of  all  arrangements,  and  in 
due  course  sent  out  the  following  invitation  to  every 
male  member  of  the  family: 

«  y 

"  Your  presence  is  requested  at  ike  funeral  of  Miss 
Ann   Forsyte,    in   Highgate    Cemetery,    at   noon   of 
Oct.    ist.     Carriages    will    meet     at    'The     Bower/ 
Bayswater  Road,  at  10.45.     No  flowers  by  request. 
"R.S.  V.P." 

The  morning  came,  cold,  with  a  high,  grey,  London 
sky,  and  at  half -past  ten  the  first  carriage,  that  of 
James,  drove  up.  It  contained  James  and  his  son-in-law 
Dartie,  a  short  man,  with  a  square  chest,  buttoned  very 
tightly  into  a  frock  coat,  and  a  sallow,  fattish  face 
adorned  with  dark,  well-curled  moustaches,  and  that 
incorrigible  commencement  of  whisker  which,  eluding 
the  strictest  attempts  at  shaving,  seems  the  mark  of 
something  deeply  ingrained  in  the  personality  of  the 
shaver,  being  especially  noticeable  in  men  who  speculate. 

Soames,  in  his  capacity  of  executor,  received  the 
guests,  for  Timothy  still  kept  his  bed ;  he  would  get  up 
after  the  funeral;  and  Aunts  Juley  and  Hester  would 


1 20  The  Man  of  Property 

not  be  coming  down  till  all  was  over,  when  it  was 
understood  there  would  be  lunch  for  any  one  who  cared 
to  come  back.  The  next  to  arrive  was  Roger,  still 
limping  from  the  gout,  and  encircled  by  three  of  his 
sons — young  Roger,  Eustace,  and  Thomas.  George, 
the  remaining  son,  arrived  almost  immediately  after- 
wards in  a  hansom,  and  paused  in  the  hall  to  ask  Soames 
how  he  found  the  undertaking  pay. 

They  disliked  each  other. 

Then  came  two  Haymans — Giles  and  Jesse — perfectly 
silent,  and  very  well  dressed,  with  special  creases  down 
their  evening  trousers.  Then  old  Jolyon  alone.  Next, 
Nicholas,  with  a  healthy  colour  in  his  face,  and  a  carefully 
veiled  sprightliness  in  every  movement  of  his  head  and 
body.  Three  of  his  sons  followed  him,  meek  and  sub- 
dued. Swithin  Forsyte  and  Bosinney  arrived  at  the 
same  moment,  and  stood  bowing  precedence  to  each 
other,  but  on  the  door  opening  they  tried  to  enter 
together;  they  renewed  their  apologies  in  the  hall,  and 
Swithin,  settling  his  stock,  which  had  become  disarranged 
in  the  struggle,  very  slowly  mounted  the  stairs.  Two 
more  Haymans;  three  married  sons  of  Nicholas,  together 
with  Tweetyman,  Spender,  and  Warry,  the  husbands  of 
married  Forsyte  and  Hayman  daughters.  The  company 
was  then  complete,  twenty-five  in  all,  not  a  male  member 
of  the  family  being  absent  but  Timothy  and  young 
Jolyon. 

Entering  the  scarlet  and  green  drawing-room,  whose 
apparel  made  so  vivid  a  setting  for  their  unaccustomed 
costumes,  each  tried  nervously  to  find  a  seat,  desirous 
of  hiding  the  emphatic  blackness  of  his  trousers.  There 
seemed  a  sort  of  indecency  in  that  blackness  and  in  the 
colour  of  their  gloves — a  sort  of  exaggeration  of  the 
feelings;  and  many  cast  shocked  looks  of  secret  envy 
at  "  The  Buccaneer, "  who  had  no  gloves,  and  was  wearing 


Death  of  Aunt  Ann  1 2 1 

grey  trousers.     A  subdued  hum  of  conversation  rose, 
no  one  speaking  of  the  departed,  but  each  asking  after 
the  other,  as  though  thereby  casting  an  indirect  libation 
to  this  event,  which  they  had  come  to  honour. 
And  presently  James  said: 
"Well,  I  think  we  ought  to  be  starting." 
They  went  down-stairs,  and,  two  and  two,  as  they  had 
been  told  off  in  strict  precedence,  mounted  the  carriages. 
The  hearse  started  at  a  foot's  pace;    the  carriages 
moved  slowly  after.     In  the  first  went  old  Jolyon  with 
Nicholas;  in  the  second,  the  twins,  Swithin  and  James; 
in  the  third,  Roger  and  young  Roger;  Soames,  young 
Nicholas,  George,  and  Bosinney  followed  in  the  fourth. 
Each  of  the  other  carriages,  eight  in  all,  held  three  or 
four  of  the  family;    behind  them  came  the   doctor's 
brougham;   then,  at  a  decent  interval,  cabs  containing 
family  clerks  and  servants;    and  at  the  very  end,  one 
containing  nobody  at  all,  but  bringing  the  total  cortege 
up  to  the  number  of  thirteen. 

So  long  as  the  procession  kept  to  the  highway  of  the 
Bayswater  Road,  it  retained  the  foot's  pace,  but,  turning 
into  less  important  thoroughfares,  it  soon  broke  into 
a  trot,  and  so  proceeded,  with  intervals  of  walking  in 
the  more  fashionable  streets,  until  it  arrived.  In  the 
first  carriage  old  Jolyon  and  Nicholas  were  talking  of 
their  wills.  In  the  second  the  twins,  after  a  single 
attempt,  had  lapsed  into  complete  silence;  both  were 
rather  deaf,  and  the  exertion  of  making  themselves 
heard  was  too  great.  Only  once  James  broke  this 
silence: 

"I  shall  have  to  be  looking  about  for  some  ground 
somewhere.  What  arrangements  have  you  made, 
Swithin?" 

And  Swithin, fixing  him  with  a  dreadful  stare, answered: 
"Don't  talk  to  me  about  such  thingil" 


122  The  Man  of  Property 

In  the  fourth  carriage  a  disjointed  conversation  was 
carried  on  in  the  intervals  of  looking  out  to  see  how  far 
they  had  got,  George  remarking,  "  Well,  it  was  really  time 
that  the  poor  old  lady  'went.'"  He  didn't  believe 
in  people  living  beyond  seventy.  Young  Nicholas 
replied  mildly  that  the  rule  did  n't  seem  to  apply  to  the 
Forsytes.  George  said  he  himself  intended  to  commit 
suicide  at  sixty.  Young  Nicholas,  smiling  and  stroking 
a  little  beard,  didn't  think  his  father  would  like  that 
theory;  he  had  made  a  lot  of  money  since  he  was  sixty. 
Well,  seventy  was  the  outside  limit;  it  was  then  time, 
George  said,  for  them  to  go  and  leave  their  money  to 
their  children.  Soames,  hitherto  silent,  here  joined  in;  he 
had  not  forgotten  the  remark  about  the  "undertaking," 
and,  lifting  his  eyelids  almost  inperceptibly,  said  it  was  all 
very  well  for  people  who  never  made  money  to  talk. 
He  himself  intended  to  live  as  long  as  he  could.  This 
was  a  hit  at  George,  who  was  notoriously  hard  'up. 
Bosinney  muttered  abstractedly  "Hear,  hear!"  and 
George  yawning,  the  conversation  dropped. 

Upon  arriving,  the  coffin  was  borne  into  the  chapel, 
and,  two  by  two,  the  mourners  filed  in  behind  it.  This 
guard  of  men,  all  attached  to  the  dead  by  the  bond  of 
kinship,  was  an  impressive  and  singular  sight  in  the 
great  city  of  London,  with  its  overwhelming  diversity 
of  life,  its  innumerable  vocations,  pleasures,  duties, 
its  terrible  hardness,  its  terrible  call  to  individualism. 

The  family  had  gathered  to  triumph  over  all  this, 
to  give  a  show  of  tenacious  unity,  to  illustrate  gloriously 
that  law  of  property  underlying  the  growth  of  their  tree, 
by  which  it  had  thriven  and  spread,  trunk  and  branches, 
the  sap  flowing  through  all,  the  full  growth  reached  at  the 
appointed  time.  The  spirit  of  the  old  woman  lying 
in  her  last  sleep  had  called  them  to  this  demonstration. 
It  was  her  final  appeal  to  that  unity  which  had  been  their 


Death  of  Aunt  Ann  123 

strength — it  was  her  final  triumph  that  she  had  died 
while  the  tree  was  yet  whole. 

She  was  spared  the  watching  of  the  branches  jut  out 
beyond  the  point  of  balance.  She  could  not  look  into 
the  hearts  of  her  followers.  The  same  law  that  had 
worked  in  her,  bringing  her  up  from  a  tall,  straight- 
backed  slip  of  a  girl  to  a  woman  strong  and  grown, 
from  a  woman  grown  to  a  woman  old,  angular,  feeble, 
almost  witch-like,  with  individuality  all  sharpened 
and  sharpened,  as  all  rounding  from  the  world's  contact 
fell  off  from  her — that  same  law  would  work,  was  working, 
in  the  family  she  had  watched  like  a  mother. 

She  had  seen  it  young,  and  growing;  she  had  seen  it 
strong  and  grown,  and  before  her  old  eyes  had  time  or 
strength  to  see  any  more,  she  died.  She  would  have 
tried,  and  who  knows  but  she  might  have  kept  it  young 
and  strong,  with  her  old  fingers,  her  trembling  kisses — 
a  little  longer ;  alas!  not  even  Aunt  Ann  could  fight  with 
Nature. 

"Pride  comes  before  a  fall! "  In  accordance  with  this, 
the  greatest  of  Nature's  ironies,  the  Forsyte  family  had 
gathered  for  a  last  proud  pageant  before  they  fell. 
Their  faces  to  right  and  left,  in  single  lines,  were  turned 
for  the  most  part  impassively  toward  the  ground, 
guardians  of  their  thoughts;  but  here  and  there,  one 
looking  upward,  with  a  line  between  his  brows,  seemed 
to  see  some  sight  on  the  chapel  walls  too  much  for  him, 
to  be  listening  to  something  that  appalled.  And  the 
responses,  low-muttered,  in  voices  through  which  rose 
the  same  tone,  the  same  unseizable  family  ring,  sounded 
weird,  as  though  murmured  in  hurried  duplication  by  a 
single  person. 

The  service  in  the  chapel  over,  the  mourners  filed 
up  again  to  guard  the  body  to  the  tomb.  The  vault 
stood  open,  and,  round  it,  men  in  black  were  waiting. 


124  The  Man  of  Property 

From  that  high  and  sacred  field,  where  thousands 
of  the  upper-middle  class  lay  in  their  last  sleep,  the  eyes 
of  the  Forsytes  travelled  down  across  the  flocks  of 
graves.  There,  spreading  to  the  distance,  lay  London, 
with  no  sun  over  it,  mourning  the  loss  of  its  daughter, 
mourning  with  this  family,  so  dear,  the  loss  of  her  who 
was  mother  and  guardian.  A  hundred  thousand  spires 
and  houses,  blurred  in  the  great  grey  web  of  property, 
lay  there  like  prostrate  worshippers  before  the  grave 
of  this,  the  oldest  Forsyte  of  them  all. 

A  few  words,  a  sprinkle  of  earth,  the  thrusting  of  the 
coffin  home,  and  Aunt  Ann  had  passed  to  her  last  rest. 

Round  the  vault,  trustees  of  that  passing,  the  five 
brothers  stood,  with  white  heads  bowed;  they  would 
see  that  Ann  was  comfortable  where  she  was  going. 
Her  little  property  must  stay  behind,  but  otherwise, 
all  that  could  be  should  be  done. 

Then,  severally,  each  stood  aside,  and  putting  on  his 
hat,  turned  back  to  inspect  the  new  inscription  on  the 
marble  of  the  family  vault: 

SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OP 

ANN  FORSYTE, 

THE    DAUGHTER   OF    THE    ABOVE 

JOLYON    AND    ANN    FORSYTE, 
WHO  DEPARTED  THIS  LIFE  THE  2;TH  DAY  OP 

SEPTEMBER,     l886, 
AGED  EIGHTY-SEVEN  YEARS  AND  FOUR  DAYS. 

Soon,  perhaps,  some  one  else  would  be  wanting  an 
inscription.  It  wa»  strange  and  intolerable,  for  they 


Death  of  Aunt  Ann  125 

had  not  thought,  somehow,  that  Forsytes  could  die. 
And  one  and  all  they  had  a  longing  to  get  away  from 
this  painfulness,  this  ceremony  which  had  reminded 
them  of  things  they  could  not  bear  to  think  about — to 
get  away  quickly  and  go  about  their  business  and  forget. 

It  was  cold,  too;    the  wind,  like  some  slow,  disinte- 
grating force,  blowing  up  the  hill  over  the  graves,  struck 
them  with  its  chilly  breath ;    they  began  to  split  into ' 
groups,  and  as  quickly  as  possible  to  fill  the  waiting 
carriages. 

S within  said  he  should  go  back  to  lunch  at  Timothy's, 
and  he  offered  to  take  anybody  with  him  in  his  brougham. 
It  was  considered  a  doubtful  privilege  to  drive  with 
Swithin  in  his  brougham,  which  was  not  a  large  one; 
nobody  accepted,  and  he  went  off  alone.  James  and 
Roger  followed  immediately  after;  they  also  would 
drop  in  to  lunch.  The  others  gradually  melted  away, 
old  Jolyon  taking  three  nephews  to  fill  up  his  carriage, 
he  had  a  want  of  those  young  faces. 

Soames,  who  had  to  arrange  some  details  in  the 
cemetery  office,  walked  away  with  Bosinney.  He  had 
much  to  talk  over  with  him,  and,  having  finished  his 
business,  they  strolled  to  Hampstead,  lunched  together 
at  the  Spaniard's  Inn,  and  spent  a  long  time  in  going 
into  practical  details  connected  with  the  building  of 
the  house;  they  then  proceeded  to  the  tram-line,  and 
came  as  far  as  the  Marble  Arch,  where  Bosinney  went  off 
to  Stanhope  Gate  to  see  June. 

Soames  felt  in  excellent  spirits  when  he  arrived  home, 
and  confided  to  Irene  at  dinner  that  he  had  had  a  good 
talk  with  Bosinney,  who  really  seemed  a  sensible  fellow; 
they  had  had  a  capital  walk,  too,  which  had  done  his 
liver  good — he  had  been  short  of  exercise  for  a  long 
time, — and  altogether  a  very  satisfactory  day.  If  only 
it  had  n't  been  for  poor  Aunt  Ann,  he  would  have  taken 


126  The  Man  of  ^Property 

her  to  the  theatre ;  as  it  was,  they  must  make  the  best 
of  an  evening  at  home. 

"The  Buccaneer  asked  after  you  more  than  once,"  he 
said  suddenly.  And  moved  by  some  inexplicable  desire 
to  assert  his  proprietorship,  he  rose  from  his  chair  and 
planted  a  kiss  on  his  wife's  shoulder. 


CHAPTER  X 

PROGRESS     OF     THE     HOUSE 

THE  winter  had  been  an  open  one.  Things  in  the 
trade  were  slack;  and  as  Soames  had  reflected 
before  making  up  his  mind,  it  had  been  a  good  time 
for  building.  The  shell  of  the  house  at  Robin  Hill 
was  thus  completed  by  the  end  of  April. 

Now  that  there  was  something  to  be  seen  for  his  money, 
he  had  been  coming  down  once,  twice,  even  three  times 
a  week,  and  would  mouse  about  among  the  de'bris  for 
hours,  careful  never  to  soil  his  clothes,  moving  silently 
through  the  unfinished  brickwork  of  doorways,  or 
circling  round  the  columns  in  the  central  court. 

And  he  would  stand  before  them  for  minutes  together, 
as  though  peering  into  the  real  quality  of  their  substance. 

On  April  3oth  he  had  an  appointment  with  Bosinney  to 
go  over  the  accounts,  and  five  minutes  before  the  proper 
time  he  entered  the  tent  which  the  architect  had  pitched 
for  himself  close  to  the  old  oak-tree. 

The  accounts  were  already  prepared  on  a  folding  table, 
and  with  a  nod  Soames  sat  down  to  study  them.  It 
was  some  time  before  he  raised  his  head. 

" I  can't  make  them  out, "  he  said  at  last ;  "they  come 
to  nearly  seven  hundred  more  than  they  ought! " 

After  a  glance  at  Bosinney's  face,  he  went  on  quickly: 

"If  you  only  make  a  firm  stand  against  these  builder 
chaps  you  '11  get  them  down.  They  stick  you  with  every- 
thing if  you  don't  look  sharp.  Take  ten  per  cent,  off 

127 


128  The  Man  of  Property 

all  round.  I  sha'n't  mind  it's  coming  out  a  hundred 
or  so  over  the  mark! " 

Bosinney  shook  his  head: 

"I  've  taken  off  every  farthing  I  can! " 

Soames  pushed  back  the  table  with  a  movement  of 
anger,  which  sent  the  account  sheets  fluttering  to  the 
ground. 

"Then  all  I  can  say  is,"  he  flustered  out,  "you  've 
made  a  pretty  mess  of  it!  " 

"I  've  told  you  a  dozen  times, "  Bosinney  answered 
sharply,  "that  there  'd  be  extras.  I  Ve  pointed  them 
out  to  you  over  and  over  again! " 

"I  know  that,"  growled  Soames;  "I  should  n't  have 
objected  to  a  ten-pound  note  here  and  there.  How  was 
I  to  know  that  by  'extras'  you  meant  seven  hundred 
pounds?" 

The  qualities  of  both  men  had  contributed  to  this 
not  inconsiderable  discrepancy.  On  the  one  hand,  the 
architect's  devotion  to  his  idea,  to  the  image  of  a  house 
which  he  had  created  and  believed  in,  had  made  him 
nervous  of  being  stopped,  or  forced  to  the  use  of  make- 
shifts; on  the  other,  Soames's  not  less  true  and  whole- 
hearted devotion  to  the  very  best  article  that  could 
be  obtained  for  the  money,  had  rendered  him  averse 
to  believing  that  things  worth  thirteen  shillings  could 
not  be  bought  with  twelve. 

"I  wish  I'd  never  undertaken  your  house,"  said 
Bosinney  suddenly.  "You  come  down  here  worrying 
me  out  of  my  life.  You  want  double  the  value  for  your 
money  anybody  else  would,  and  now  that  you've  got  a 
house  that  for  its  size  is  not  to  be  beaten  in  the  county, 
you  don't  want  to  pay  for  it.  If  you  're  anxious  to  be 
off  your  bargain,  I  daresay  I  can  find  the  balance  above 

the  estimates  myself,  but  I'm  d d  if  I  do  another 

stroke  of  work  for  you! " 


Progress  of  the  House  129 

Soames  regained  his  composure.  Knowing  that 
Bosinney  had  no  capital,  he  regarded  this  as  a  wild  sug- 
gestion. He  saw,  too.  that  he  would  be  kept  indefinitely 
out  of  this  house  on  which  he  had  set  his  heart,  and 
just  at  the  crucial  point  when  the  architect's  personal 
care  made  all  the  difference.  In  the  meantime  there 
was  Irene  to  be  thought  of  !  She  had  been  very  queer 
lately.  He  really  believed  it  was  only  because  she  had 
taken  to  Bosinney  that  she  tolerated  the  idea  of  the  house 
at  all.  It  would  not  do  to  make  an  open  breach  with  her. 

"You  needn't  get  into  a  rage,"  he  said.  "If  I  'm 
willing  to  put  up  with  it,  I  suppose  you  need  n't  cry  out. 
All  I  meant  was  that  when  you  tell  me  a  thing  is  going 
to  cost  so  much,  I  like  to — well,  in  fact,  I — like  to  know 
where  I  am." 

"Look  here!"  said  Bosinney,  and  Soames  was  both 
annoyed  and  surprised  by  the  shrewdness  of  his  glance. 
"You've  got  my  services  dirt  cheap.  For  the  kind  of 
work  I've  put  into  this  house,  and  the  amount  of  time 
I've  given  to  it,  you'd  have  had  to  pay  Littlemaster  or 
some  other  fool  four  times  as  much.  What  you  want, 
in  fact,  is  a  first-rate  man  for  a  fourth-rate  fee,  and 
that  's  exactly  what  you  've  got ! " 

Soames  saw  that  he  really  meant  what  he  said,  and, 
angry  though  he  was,  the  consequences  of  a  row  rose 
before  him  too  vividly.  He  saw  his  house  unfinished, 
his  wife  rebellious,  himself  a  laughing-stock. 

"Let  's  go  over  it,"  he  said  sulkily,  "and  see  how 
the  money  's  gone." 

"Very  well,"  assented  Bosinney.  "But  we'll  hurry 
up,  if  you  don't  mind.  I  have  to  get  back  in  time  to 
take  June  to  the  theatre." 

Soames  cast  a  stealthy  look  at  him,  and  said :  "  Coming 
to  our  place,  I  suppose,  to  meet  her?"     He  was  always 
coming  to  their  place! 
9 


130  The  Man  of  Property 

There  had  been  rain  the  night  before — a  spring  rain, 
and  the  earth  smelt  of  sap  and  wild  grasses.  The  warm, 
soft  breeze  swung  the  leaves  and  the  golden  buds  of  the 
old  oak-tree,  and  in  the  sunshine  the  blackbirds  were 
whistling  their  hearts  out. 

It  was  such  a  spring  day  as  breathes  into  a  man  an 
ineffable  yearning,  a  painful  sweetness,  a  longing  that 
makes  him  stand  motionless,  looking  at  the  leaves  or 
grass,  and  fling  out  his  arms  to  embrace  he  knows  not 
what.  The  earth  gave  forth  a  fainting  warmth,  stealing 
up  through  the  chilly  garment  in  which  winter  had 
wrapped  her.  It  was  her  long  caress  of  invitation,  to 
draw  men  down  to  lie  within  her  arms,  to  roll  their 
bodies  on  her,  and  put  their  lips  to  her  breast.  \ 

On  just  such  a  day  as  this  Soames  had  got  from  Irene 
the  promise  he  had  asked  her  for  so  often.  Seated  on  the 
fallen  trunk  of  a  tree,  he  had  promised  for  the  twentieth 
time  that  if  their  marriage  were  not  a  success,  she  should 
be  as  free  as  if  she  had  never  married  him! 

"Do  you  swear  it?"  she  had  said.  A  few  days  back 
she  had  reminded  him  of  that  oath.  He  had  answered: 
"Nonsense!  I  couldn't  have  sworn  any  such  thing! " 
By  some  awkward  fatality  he  remembered  it  now.  What 
queer  things  men  would  swear  for  the  sake  of  women! 
He  would  have  sworn  it  at  any  time  to  gain  her!  He 
would  swear  it  now,  if  thereby  he  could  touch  her — but 
nobody  could  touch  her,  she  was  cold-hearted! 

And  memories  crowded  on  him  with  the  fresh,  sweet 
savour  of  the  spring  wind — memories  of  his  courtship. 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  1881  he  was  visiting  his  old 
schoolfellow  and  client,  George  Liversedge,  of  Branksome, 
who,  with  the  view  of  developing  his  pine-woods  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Bournemouth,  had  placed  the  formation 
of  the  company  necessary  to  the  scheme  in  Soames 's 
hands.  Mrs.  Liversedge,  with  a  sense  of  the  fitness  of 


Progress  of  the  House  131 

things,  had  given  a  musical  tea  in  his  honour.  Late  in 
the  course  of  this  function,  which  Soames,  no  musician, 
had  regarded  as  an  unmitigated  bore,  his  eye  had  been 
caught  by  the  face  of  a  girl  dressed  in  mourning,  standing 
by  herself.  The  lines  of  her  tall ,  as  yet  rather  thin  figure 
showed  through  the  wispy,  clinging  stuff  of  her  black 
dress,  her  black-gloved  hands  were  crossed  in  front  of 
her,  her  lips  slightly  parted,  and  her  large,  dark  eyes 
wandered  from  face  to  face.  Her  hair,  done  low  on  her 
neck,  seemed  to  gleam  above  her  black  collar  like  coils 
of  shining  metal.  And  as  Soames  stood  looking  at  her, 
the  sensation  that  most  men  have  felt  at  one  time  or 
another  went  stealing  through  him — a  peculiar  satis- 
faction of  the  senses,  a  peculiar  certainty,  which  novelists 
and  old  ladies  call  love  at  first  sight.  Still  stealthily 
watching  her,  he  at  once  made  his  way  to  his  hostess, 
and  stood  doggedly  waiting  for  the  music  to  cease. 

"Who  is  that  girl  with  yellow  hair  and  dark  eyes?" 
he  asked. 

"That — oh!  Irene  Heron.  Her  father,  Professor 
Heron,  died  this  year.  She  lives  with  her  stepmother. 
She's  a  nice  girl,  a  pretty  girl,  but  no  money! " 

"Introduce  me,  please,"  said  Soames. 

It  was  very  little  that  he  found  to  say,  nor  did  he  find 
her  responsive  to  that  little.  But  he  went  away  with  the 
resolution  to  see  her  again.  He  effected  his  object  by 
chance,  meeting  her  on  the  pier  with  her  stepmother, 
who  had  the  habit  of  walking  there  from  twelve  to  one 
of  a  forenoon.  Soames  made  this  lady's  acquaintance 
with  alacrity,  nor  was  it  long  before  he  perceived  in  her 
the  ally  he  was  looking  for.  His  keen  scent  for  the  com- 
mercial side  of  family  life  soon  told  him  that  Irene  cost 
her  stepmother  more  .than  the  fifty  pounds  a  year  she 
brought  her;  it  also  told  him  that  Mrs.  Heron,  a  woman 
yet  in  the  prime  of  life,  desired  to  be  married  again. 


132  The  Man  of  Property 

The  strange  ripening  beauty  of  her  stepdaughter  stood 
in  the  way  of  this  desirable  consummation.  And 
Soames,  in  his  stealthy  tenacity,  laid  his  plans. 

He  left  Bournemouth  without  having  given  himself 
away,  but  in  a  month's  time  came  back,  and  this  time 
he  spoke,  not  to  the  girl,  but  to  her  stepmother.  He 
had  made  up  his  mind,  he  said;  he  would  wait  any  time. 
And  he  had  long  to  wait,  watching  Irene  bloom,  the  lines 
of  her  young  figure  softening,  the  stronger  blood  deepen- 
ing the  gleam  of  her  eyes,  and  warming  her  face  to  a 
creamy  glow;  and  at  each  visit  he  proposed  to  her,  and 
when  that  visit  was  at  an  end,  took  her  refusal  away 
with  him,  back  to  London,  sore  at  heart,  but  steadfast 
and  silent  as  the  grave.  He  tried  to  come  at  the  secret 
springs  of  her  resistance;  only  once  had  he  a  gleam  of 
light.  It  was  at  one  of  those  assembly  dances,  which 
afford  the  only  outlet  to  the  passions  of  the  population 
of  seaside  watering-places.  He  was  sitting  with  her  in 
an  embrasure,  his  senses  tingling  with  the  contact  of  the 
waltz.  She  had  looked  at  him  over  her  slowly  waving 
fan;  and  he  had  lost  his  head.  Seizing  that  moving 
wrist,  he  pressed  his  lips  to  the  flesh  of  her  arm.  And 
she  had  shuddered — to  this  day  he  had  not  forgotten 
that  shudder — nor  the  look  so  passionately  averse  she 
had  given  him. 

A  year  after  that  she  had  yielded.  What  had  made 
her  yield  he  could  never  make  out;  and  from  Mrs. 
Heron,  a  woman  of  some  diplomatic  talent,  he  learned 
nothing.  Once  after  they  were  married  he  asked  her, 
"What  made  you  refuse  me  so  often!"  She  had  an- 
swered by  a  strange  silence.  An  enigma  to  him  from 
the  day  that  he  first  saw  her,  she  was  an  enigma  to 
him  still. 

Bosinney  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  door;  and  on  his 
rugged,  good-looking  face  was  a  queer,  yearning,  yet 


Progress  of  the  House  133 

happy  look,  as  though  he  too  saw  a  promise  of  bliss 
in  the  spring  sky,  sniffed  a  coming  happiness  in  the 
spring  air.  Soames  looked  at  him  waiting  there.  What 
was  the  matter  with  the  fellow  that  he  looked  so  happy  ? 
What  was  he  waiting  for  with  that  smile  on  his  lips  and 
in  his  eyes?  Soames  could  not  see  that  for  which 
Bosinney  was  waiting  as  he  stood  there  drinking  in  the 
flower-scented  wind.  And  once  more  he  felt  baffled  in 
the  presence  of  this  man  whom  by  habit  he  despised. 
He  hastened  on  to  the  house. 

"The  only  colour  for  those  tiles,"  he  heard  Bosinney  say 
"is  ruby  with  a  grey  tint  in  the  stuff,  to  give  a  transparent 
effect.  I  should  like  Irene's  opinion.  I  'm  ordering  the 
purple  leather  curtains  for  the  doorway  of  this  court  I 
and  if  you  distemper  the  drawing-room  ivory  cream  over 
paper,  you'll  get  an  illusive  look.  You  want  to  aim 
all  through  the  decorations  at  what  I  call — charm." 

Soames  said:    "You  mean  that  my  wife  has  charm!" 

Bosinney  evaded  the  question. 

"You  should  have  a  clump  of  iris  plants  in  the  centre  of 
that  court." 

Soames  smiled  superciliously. 

"I'll  look  into  Beech's  some  time,"  he  said,  "and  see 
what's  appropriate! " 

They  found  little  else  to  say  to  each  other,  but  on  the 
way  to  the  station  Soames  asked: 

"I  suppose  you  find  Irene  very  artistic?" 

"Yes."  The  abrupt  answer  was  as  distinct  a  snub 
as  saying:  "If  you  want  to  discuss  her  you  can  do  it 
with  some  one  else!" 

And  the  slow,  sulky  anger  Soames  had  felt  all  the 
afternoon  burned  the  brighter  within  him. 

Neither  spoke  again  till  they  were  close  to  the  stationi 
then  Soames  asked: 

"When  do  you  expect  to  have  it  finished?" 


134  The  Man  of  Property 

"  By  the  end  of  June,  if  you  really  wish  me  to  decorate 
as  well." 

Soames  nodded.  "  But  you  quite  understand,"  he  said, 
"  that  the  house  is  costing  me  a  lot  beyond  what  I  contem- 
plated. I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  I  should  have  thrown 
it  up,  only  I  'm  not  in  the  habit  of  giving  up  what  I  've 
set  my  mind  on!" 

Bosinney  made  no  reply.  And  Soames  gave  him 
askance  a  look  of  dogged  dislike — for  in  spite  of  his 
fastidious  air  and  that  supercilious,  dandified  taciturnity, 
Soames,  with  his  set  lips  and  his  squared  chin,  was  not 
unlike  a  bull-dog.  .  .  . 

When,  at  seven  o'clock  that  evening,  June  arrived  at 
62  Montpellier  Square,  the  maid  Bilson  told  her  that  Mr. 
Bosinney  was  in  the  drawing-room;  the  mistress,  she 
said,  was  dressing,  and  would  be  down  in  a  minute. 
She  would  tell  her  that  Miss  June  was  here. 

June  stopped  her  at  once. 

"All  right,  Bilson,"  she  said,  "I'll  just  go  in.  You 
need  n't  hurry  Mrs.  Soames." 

She  took  off  her  cloak,  and  Bilson,  with  an  understand- 
ing look,  did  not  even  open  the  drawing-room  door  for 
her  but  ran  down-stairs. 

June  paused  for  a  moment  to  look  at  herself  in  the 
little  old-fashioned  silver  mirror  above  the  oaken  rug 
chest — a  slim,  imperious  young  figure, with  a  small  resolute 
face,  in  a  white  frock,  cut  moon-shaped  at  the  base  of  a 
neck  too  slender  for  her  crown  of  twisted  red  gold  hair. 

She  opened  the  drawing-room  door  softly,  meaning  to 
take  him  by  surprise.  The  room  was  filled  with  a  sweet 
hot  scent  of  flowering  azaleas. 

She  took  a  long  breath  of  the  perfume,  and  heard 
Bosinney 's  voice,  not  in  the  room,  but  quite  close,  saying: 

"Ah!  there  were  such  heaps  of  things  I  wanted  to  talk 
about,  and  now  we  sha'n't  have  time!" 


Progress  of  the  House  135 

Irene's  voice  answered:    "Why  not  at  dinner?" 

"How  can  one  talk " 

June's  first  thought  was  to  go  away,  but  instead  she 
crossed  to  the  long  window  opening  on  the  little  court. 
It  was  from  there  that  the  scent  of  the  azaleas  came,  and, 
standing  with  their  backs  to  her,  their  faces  buried 
in  the  golden-pink  blossoms,  stood  her  lover  and 
Irene. 

Silent  but  unashamed,  with  flaming  cheeks  and  angry 
eyes,  the  girl  watched. 

"Come  on  Sunday  by  yourself — we  can  go  over  the 
house  together " 

June  saw  Irene  look  up  at  him  through  her  screen  of 
blossoms.  It  was  not  the  look  of  a  coquette,  but — far 
worse  to  the  watching  girl — of  a  woman  fearful  lest  that 
look  should  say  too  much. 

"  I  've  promised  to  go  for  a  drive  with  Uncle " 

"The  big  one!  Make  him  bring  you;  it's  only  ten 
miles — the  very  thing  for  his  horses." 

"  Poor  old  Uncle  Swithin!  " 

A  wave  of  the  azalea  scent  drifted  into  June's  face; 
she  felt  sick  and  dizzy. 

"Do!  ah!  do!" 

"But  why?" 

"I  must  see  you  there — I  thought  you  'd  like  to  help 
me " 

The  answer  seemed  to  the  girl  to  come  softly,  with  a 
tremble  from  amongst  the  blossoms:  "So  I  do!" 

And  she  stepped  into  the  open  space  of  the  window. 

"How  stuffy  it  is  here!"  she  said;  "I  can't  bear  this 
scent!" 

Her  eyes,  so  angry  and  direct,  swept  both  their  faces. 

"Were  you  talking  about  the  house?  I  have  n't  seen 
it  yet,  you  know — shall  we  all  go  on  Sunday?" 

From  Irene's  face  the  colour  had  flown. 


136  The  Man  of  Property 

"  I  am  going  for  a  drive  that  day  with  Uncle  Swithin, " 
she  answered. 

"Uncle  Swithin!  What  does  he  matter?  You  can 
throw  him  over! " 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  throwing  people  over  !  " 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  and  June  saw  Soames 
standing  just  behind  her. 

"Well!  if  you  are  all  ready,"  said  Irene,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other  with  a  strange  smile,  "dinner  is  too! " 


CHAPTER  XI 
JUNE'S  TREAT 

DINNER  began   in  silence;  the  women  facing  one 
another,  and  the  men. 

In  silence  the  soup  was  finished — excellent,  if  a  little 
thick;  and  fish  was  brought.  In  silence  it  was  handed, 

Bosinney  ventured:   "It  's  the  first  spring  day." 

Irene  echoed  softly:    "Yes — the  first  spring  day." 

"Spring!"  said  June;  "there  is  n't  a  breath  of  air!" 
No  one  replied. 

The  fish  was  taken  away,  a  fine  fresh  sole  from  Dover. 
And  Bilson  brought  champagne,  a  bottle  swathed  around 
the  neck  with  white. 

Soames  said:   "You  '11  find  it  dry." 

Cutlets  were  handed,  each  pink-frilled  about  the  legs. 
They  were  refused  by  June,  and  silence  fell. 

Soames  said:  "You  'd  better  take  a  cutlet,  June; 
there  's  nothing  coming." 

But  June  again  refused,  so  they  were  borne  away.  And 
then  Irene  asked:  "  Phil,  have  you  heard  my  blackbird? '» 

Bosinney  answered:  "Rather — he's  got  a  hunting, 
song.  As  I  came  round  I  heard  him  in  the  Square." 

"He  's  such  a  darling!" 

"Salad,  sir?"     Spring  chicken  was  removed. 

But  Soames  was  speaking:  "The  asparagus  is  very 
poor.  Bosinney,  glass  of  sherry  with  your  sweet?  June, 
you  're  drinking  nothing! " 

i37 


138  The  Man  of  Property 

June  said:  "You  know  I  never  do.  Wine's  such 
horrid  stuff!" 

An  apple  charlotte  came  upon  a  silver  dish.  And 
smilingly  Irene  said:  "The  azaleas  are  so  wonderful 
this  year!" 

To  this  Bosinney  murmured:  "Wonderful I  The 
scent 's  extraordinary! " 

June  said:  "How  can  you  like  the  scent?  Sugar, 
please,  Bilson." 

Sugar  was  handed  her,  and  Soames  remarked:  "This 
charlotte's  good!" 

The  charlotte  was  removed.  Long  silence  followed. 
Irene,  beckoning,  said:  "Take  out  the  azalea,  Bilson. 
Miss  June  can't  bear  the  scent." 

"No;  let  it  stay,"  said  June. 

Olives  from  France,  with  Russian  caviare,  were 
placed  on  little  plates.  And  Soames  remarked:  "Why 
can't  we  have  the  Spanish?"  But  no  one  answered. 

The  olives  were  removed.  Lifting  her  tumbler 
June  demanded:  "Give  me  some  water,  please."  Water 
was  given  her.  A  silver  tray  was  brought,  with  German 
plums.  There  was  a  lengthy  pause.  In  perfect  harmony 
all  were  eating  them. 

Bosinney  counted  up  the  stones:  "This  year — next 
year — some  time " 

Irene  finished  softly:  "Never.  There  was  such  a 
glorious  sunset.  The  sky's  all  ruby  still — so  beautiful! " 

He  answered:    "Underneath  the  dark." 

Their  eyes  had  met,  and  June  cried  scornfully:  "A 
London  sunset!" 

Egyptian  cigarettes  were  handed  in  a  silver  box. 
Soames,  taking  one,  remarked:  "What  time  does  your 
play  begin?" 

No  one  replied,  and  Turkish  coffee  followed  in 
enamelled  cups. 


June's  Treat  139 

Irene,  smiling  quietly,  said:  "  If  only " 

"Only  what?"    said  June. 

"If  only  it  could  always  be  the  spring!" 

Brandy  was  handed;  it  was  pale  and  old. 

Soames  said:  "  Bosinney,  better  take  some  brandy." 

Bosinney  took  a  glass;  they  all  arose. 

"You  want  a  cab?"  asked  Soames. 

June  answered:  "No.  My  cloak,  please,  Bilson." 
Her  cloak  was  brought. 

Irene,  from  the  window,  murmured:  "Such  a  lovely 
night!  The  stars  are  coming  out! " 

Soames  added:  "Well,  I  hope  you'll  both  enjoy 
yourselves." 

From  the  door  June  answered:  "Thanks.  Come, 
Phil." 

Bosinney  cried:      "I  'incoming." 

Soames  smiled  a  sneering  smile,  and  said:  "I  wish 
you  luck! " 

And  at  the  door  Irene  watched  them  go. 

Bosinney  called :  ' '  Good  night ! ' ' 

"Good  night! "   she  answered  softly. 

June  made  her  lover  take  her  on  the  top  of  a  'bus^ 
saying  she  wanted  air,  and  there  sat  silent,  with  her 
face  to  the  breeze. 

The  driver  turned  once  or  twice,  with  the  intention  of 
venturing  a  remark,  but  thought  better  of  it.  They  were 
a  lively  couple!  The  spring  had  got  into  his  blood,  too; 
he  felt  the  need  for  letting  steam  escape,  and  clucked 
his  tongue,  flourishing  his  whip,  wheeling  his  horses,  and 
even  they,  poor  things,  had  smelled  the  spring,  and  for 
a  brief  half -hour  spurned  the  pavement  with  happy  hoofs. 

The  whole  town  was  alive;  the  boughs,  curled  upward 
with  their  decking  of  young  leaves,  awaited  some  gift 
the  breeze  could  bring.  New-lighted  lamps  were  gaining 
mastery,  and  the  faces  of  the  crowd  showed  pale  under 


140  The  Man  of  Property 

that  glare,  while  on  high  the  great  white  clouds  slid 
swiftly,  softly,  over  the  purple  sky. 

Men  in  evening  dress  had  thrown  back  overcoats, 
stepping  jauntily  up  the  steps  of  clubs;  working  folk 
loitered;  and  women— those  women  who  at  that  time 
of  night  are  solitary — solitary  and  moving  eastward  in  a 
stream — swung  slowly  along,  with  expectation  in  their 
gait,  dreaming  of  good  wine  and  a  good  supper,  or,  for 
an  unwonted  minute,  of  kisses  given  for  love. 

Those  countless  figures,  going  their  ways  under  the 
lamps  and  the  moving  sky,  had  one  and  all  received 
some  restless  blessing  from  the  stir  of  spring.  And 
one  and  all,  like  those  clubmen  with  their  opened  coats, 
had  shed  something  of  caste,  and  creed,  and  custom,  and 
by  the  cock  of  their  hats,  the  pace  of  their  walk,  their 
laughter,  or  their  silence,  revealed  their  common  kinship 
under  the  passionate  heavens. 

Bosinney  and  June  entered  the  theatre  in  silence,  and 
mounted  to  their  seats  in  the  upper  boxes.  The  piece 
had  just  begun,  and  the  half-darkened  house,  with  its 
rows  of  creatures  peering  all  one  way,  resembled 
a  great  garden  of  flowers  turning  their  faces  to  the 
sun. 

June  had  never  before  been  in  the  upper  boxes.  From 
the  age  of  fifteen  she  had  habitually  accompanied  her 
grandfather  to  the  stalls,  and  not  common  stalls,  but  the 
best  seats  in  the  house,  towards  the  centre  of  the  third 
row,  booked  by  old  Jolyon,  at  Grogan  and  Boyne's,  on 
his  way  home  from  the  city,  long  before  the  day;  carried 
in  his  overcoat  pocket,  together  with  his  cigar-case  and 
his  old  kid  gloves,  and  handed  to  June  to  keep  till  the 
appointed  night.  And  in  those  stalls — an  erect  old 
figure  with  a  serene  white  head,  a  little  figure,  strenuous 
and  eager,  with  a  red-gold  head — they  would  sit  through 
every  kind  of  play,  and  on  the  way  home  old  Jolyon 


June's  Treat  141 

would  say  of  the  principal  actor:  "  Oh,  he  's  a  poor  stick! 
You  should  have  seen  little  Bobson!  " 

She  had  looked  forward  to  this  evening  with  keen 
delight;  it  was  stolen,  chaperone-less,  undreamed  of  at 
Stanhope  Gate,  where  she  was  supposed  to  be  at  Soames's. 
She  had  expected  reward  for  her  subterfuge,  planned 
for  her  lover's  sake;  she  had  expected  it  to  break  up 
the  thick,  chilly  cloud,  and  make  the  relations  between 
them — which  of  late  had  been  so  puzzling,  so  tormenting 
— sunny  and  simple  again  as  they  had  been  before  the 
winter.  She  had  come  with  the  intention  of  saying 
something  definite ;  and  she  looked  at  the  stage  with  a 
furrow  between  her  brows,  seeing  nothing,  her  hands 
squeezed  together  in  her  lap.  A  swarm  of  jealous 
suspicions  stung  and  stung  her. 

If  Bosinney  was  conscious  of  her  trouble  he  made  no 
sign. 

The  curtain  dropped.   The  first  act  had  come  to  an  end. 

''It's  awfully  hot  here!"  said  the  girl;  "I  should 
like  to  go  out." 

She  was  very  white,  and  she  knew — for  with  her 
nerves  thus  sharpened  she  saw  everything — that  he  was 
both  uneasy  and  compunctious. 

At  the  back  of  the  theatre  an  open  balcony  hung  over 
the  street;  she  took  possession  of  this,  and  stood  leaning 
there  without  a  word,  waiting  for  him  to  begin. 

At  last  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"I  want  to  say  something  to  you,  Phil,"  she  said. 

"Yes?" 

The  defensive  tone  of  his  voice  brought  the  colour 
flying  to  her  cheek,  the  words  flying  to  her  lips:  "You 
don't  give  me  a  chance  to  be  nice  to  you;  you  have  n't 
for  ages  now! " 

Bosinney  stared  down  at  the  street.  He  made  no 
answer. 


142  The  Man  of  Property 

June  cried  passionately:  "You  know  I  want  to  do 
everything  for  you — that  I  want  to  be  everything  to 
you " 

A  hum  rose  from  the  street,  and,  piercing  it  with  a 
sharp  "ping,"  the  bell  sounded  for  the  raising  of  the 
curtain.  June  did  not  stir.  A  desperate  struggle  was 
going  on  within  her.  Should  she  put  everything  to  the 
proof?  Should  she  challenge  directly  that  influence, 
that  attraction  which  was  drawing  him  away  from  her? 
It  was  her  nature  to  challenge,  and  she  said:  "Phil, 
take  me  to  see  the  house  on  Sunday!" 

With  a  smile  quivering  and  breaking  on  her  lips,  and 
trying,  how  hard!  not  to  show  that  she  was  watching, 
she  searched  his  face,  saw  it  waver  and  hesitate,  saw  a 
troubled  line  come  between  his  brows,  the  blood  rush  into 
his  face.  He  answered:  "Not  Sunday,  dear;  some 
other  day!" 

"Why  not  Sunday?  I  should  n't  be  in  the  way  on 
Sunday." 

He  made  an  evident  effort,  and  said:  "I  have  an 
engagement." 

"You  are  going  to  take " 

His  eyes  grew  angry;  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
answered:  "An  engagement  that  will  prevent  my 
taking  you  to  see  the  house! " 

June  bit  her  lip  till  the  blood  came,  and  walked  back 
to  her  seat  without  another  word,  but  she  could  not  help 
the  tears  of  rage  rolling  down  her  face.  The  house  had 
been  mercifully  darkened  for  a  crisis,  and  no  one  could 
see  her  trouble. 

Yet  in  this  world  of  Forsytes  let  no  man  think  himself 
immune  from  observation. 

In  the  third  row  behind,  Euphemia,  Nicholas's  second 
daughter,  with  her  married  sister,  Mrs.  Tweetyman,  were 
watching. 


June's  Treat  143 

They  reported  at  Timothy's,  how  they  had  seen 
June  and  her  fiance*  at  the  theatre. 

"  In  the  stalls? "  " No,  not  in  the "  "  Oh!  in  the 

dress  circle,  of  course.  That  seemed  to  be  quite  fash- 
ionable nowadays  with  young  people! " 

Well — not  exactly.  In  the Anyway,  that  en- 
gagement would  n  't  last  long.  They  had  never  seen  any 
one  look  so  thunder  and  lightningy  as  that  little  June! 
With  tears  of  enjoyment  in  their  eyes,  they  related  how 
she  had  kicked  a  man's  hat  as  she  returned  to  her  seat 
in  the  middle  of  an  act,  and  how  the  man  had  looked. 
Euphemia  had  a  noted,  silent  laugh,  terminating  most 
disappointingly  in  squeaks;  and  when  Mrs.  Small, 
holding  up  her  hands,  said:  "My  dear!  Kicked  a  ha-at?" 
she  let  out  such  a  number  of  these  that  she  had  to  be 
recovered  with  smelling-salts.  As  she  went  away,  she 
said  to  Mrs.  Tweetyman:  "  '  Kicked  a  ha-at ! '  Oh,  I 
shall  die." 

For  "that  little  June"  this  evening,  that  was  to  have 
been  "her  treat,"  was  the  most  miserable  she  had  ever 
spent.  God  knows  she  tried  to  stifle  her  pride,  her 
suspicion,  her  jealousy! 

She  parted  from  Bosinney  at  old  Jolyon's  door  with- 
out breaking  down ;  the  feeling  that  her  lover  must  be 
conquered  was  strong  enough  to  sustain  her  till  his 
retiring  footsteps  brought  home  the  true  extent  of  her 
wretchedness. 

The  noiseless  "Sankey"  let  her  in.  She  would 
have  slipped  up  to  her  own  room,  but  old  Jolyon,  who 
had  heard  her  entrance,  was  in  the  dining-room  doorway. 

" Come  in  and  have  your  milk, "  he  said.  "It  's  been 
kept  hot  for  you.  You  're  very  late.  Where  have  you 
been  ? ' ' 

June  stood  at  the  fireplace,  with  a  foot  on  the  fender 
and  an  arm  on  the  mantelpiece,  as  her  grandfather  had 


144  The  Man  of  Property 

done  when  he  came  in  that  night  of  the  opera.  She 
was  too  near  a  breakdown  to  care  what  she  told  him. 

"We  dined  at  Soames's." 

"H'm!  the  man  of  property!  His  wife  there — and 
Bosinney?" 

"Yes." 

Old  Jolyon's  face  was  fixed  on  her  with  the  penetrating 
gaze  from  which  it  was  so  difficult  to  hide ;  but  she  was 
not  looking  at  him.  and  when  she  turned  her  face,  he 
dropped  his  scrutiny  at  once.  He  had  seen  enough, 
and  too  much.  He  bent  down  to  lift  the  cup  of  milk 
for  her  from  the  hearth,  and,  turning  away,  grumbled: 
"You  ought  n't  to  stay  out  so  late;  it  makes  you  fit 
for  nothing." 

He  was  invisible  now  behind  his  paper,  which  he 
turned  with  a  vicious  crackle;  but  when  June  came 
up  to  kiss  him,  he  said:  "Good  night,  my  darling,"  in  a 
tone  so  tremulous  and  unexpected,  that  it  was  all  the 
girl  could  do  to  get  out  of  the  room  without  breaking 
into  the  fit  of  sobbing  that  lasted  her  well  on  into  the 
night. 

When  the  door  was  closed,  old  Jolyon  dropped  his 
paper,  and  stared  long  and  anxiously  in  front  of  him. 

"The  beggar!"  he  thought.  "I  always  knew  she'd 
have  trouble  with  him!  " 

Uneasy  doubts  and  suspicions,  the  more  poignant 
that  he  felt  himself  powerless  to  check  or  control  the 
march  of  events,  came  crowding  upon  him. 

Was  the  fellow  going  to  jilt  her?  He  longed  to  go  and 
say  to  him:  "  Look  here,  you  sir!  Are  you  going  to  jilt 
my  granddaughter?"  But  how  could  he?  Knowing 
little  or  nothing,  he  was  yet  certain,  with  his  unerring 
astuteness,  that  there  was  something  going  on.  He 
suspected  Bosinney  of  being  too  much  at  Montpellier 
Square. 


June's  Treat  145 

"This  fellow,"  he  thought,  "may  not  be  a  scamp; 
his  face  is  not  a  bad  one,  but  he's  a  queer  fish.  I  don't 
know  what  to  make  of  him.  I  shall  never  know  what 
to  make  of  him!  They  tell  me  he  works  like  a  nigger, 
but  I  see  no  good  coming  of  it.  He's  unpractical,  he 
has  no  method.  When  he  comes  here,  he  sits  as  glum 
as  a  monkey.  If  I  ask  him  what  wine  he'll  have,  he 
says:  "Thanks,  any  wine."  If  I  offer  him  a  cigar, 
he  smokes  it  as  if  it  were  a  twopenny  German  thing.  I 
never  see  him  looking  at  June  as  he  ought  to  look  at  her ; 
and  yet,  he's  not  after  her  money.  If  she  were  to 
make  a  sign,  he'd  be  off  his  bargain  to-morrow.  But 
she  won't — not  she!  She'll  stick  to  him!  She's  as 
obstinate  as  fate — she  '11  never  let  go!  " 

Sighing  deeply,  he  turned  the  paper;  in  its  columns 
perchance  he  might  find  consolation. 

And  upstairs  in  her  room  June  sat  at  her  open  window 
where  the  spring  wind  came,  after  its  revel  across  the 
Park,  to  cool  her  hot  cheeks  and  burn  her  heart. 

10 


CHAPTER   XII 

DRIVE    WITH    SWITHIN 

HWO  lines  of  a  certain  song  in  a  certain  famous  old 
1       school's  song-book  run  as  follows: 

How  the  buttons  on  his  blue  frock  shone,  tra-la-la  I 
How  he  carolled  and  he  sang,  like  a  bird  I     ... 

Swithin  did  not  exactly  carol  and  sing  like  a  bird,  but 
he  felt  almost  like  endeavouring  to  hum  a  tune,  as  he 
stepped  out  of  Hyde  Park  Mansions,  and  contemplated 
his  horses  drawn  up  before  the  door. 

The  afternoon  was  as  balmy  as  a  day  in  June,  and 
to  complete  the  simile  of  the  old  song,  he  had  put  on 
a  blue  frock-coat,  dispensing  with  an  overcoat,  after 
sending  Adolf  down  three  times  to  make  sure  that  there 
was  not  the  least  suspicion  of  east  in  the  wind;  and  the 
frock-coat  was  buttoned  so  tightly  around  his  personable 
form,  that,  if  the  buttons  did  not  shine,  they  might 
pardonably  have  done  so.  Majestic  on  the  pavement  he 
fitted  on  a  pair  of  dog-skin  gloves;  with  his  large  bell- 
shaped  top  hat,  and  his  great  stature  and  bulk  he  looked 
too  primeval  for  a  Forsyte.  His  thick  white  hair,  on 
which  Adolf  had  bestowed  a  touch  of  pomatum  exhaled 
the  fragrance  of  opopanax  and  cigars — the  celebrated 
Swithin  brand,  for  which  he  paid  one  hundred  and 
forty  shillings  the  hundred,  and  of  which  old  Jolyon 

146 


Drive  with  Swithin  147 

had  unkindly  said, he  wouldn't  smoke  them  as  a  gift; 
they  wanted  the  stomach  of  a  horse  1 

"Adolf!" 

"Sare!" 

"The  new  plaid  rug!" 

He  would  never  teach  that  fellow  to  look  smart;  and 
Mrs.  Soames  he  felt  sure,  had  an  eye! 

"The  phaeton  hood  down;  I  am  going — to — drive — a 
—lady!" 

A  pretty  woman  would  want  to  show  off  her  frock; 
and  well — he  was  going  to  drive  a  lady!  It  was  like  a 
new  beginning  to  the  good  old  days. 

Ages  since  he  had  driven  a  woman!  The  last  time, 
if  he  remembered,  it  had  been  Juley;  the  poor  old 
soul  had  been  as  nervous  as  a  cat  the  whole  time,  and  so 
put  him  out  of  patience  that,  as  he  dropped  her 
in  the  Bayswater  Road,  he  had  said:  "Well  I'm 
d — d  if  I  ever  drive  you  again!"  And  he  never  had, 
not  he! 

Going  up  to  his  horses'  heads,  he  examined  their  bits; 
not  that  he  knew  anything  about  bits — he  didn't  pay 
his  coachman  sixty  pounds  a  year  to  do  his  work  for 
him,  that  had  never  been  his  principle.  Indeed,  his 
reputation  as  a  horsey  man  rested  mainly  on  the  fact 
that  once,  on  Derby  Day,  he  had  been  welshed  by  some 
thimble-riggers.  But  some  one  at  the  Club,  after  seeing 
him  drive  his  greys  up  to  the  door — he  always  drove 
grey  horses,  you  got  more  style  for  the  money,  some 
thought — had  called  him  "Four-in-hand  Forsyte." 
The  name  having  reached  his  ears  through  that  fellow 
Nicholas  Treffry,  old  Jolyon's  dead  partner,  the  great 
driving  man — notorious  for  more  carriage  accidents 
than  any  man  in  the  kingdom — Swithin  had  ever  after 
conceived  it  right  to  act  up  to  it.  The  name  had  taken 
his  fancy,  not  because  he  had  ever  driven  four-in-hand, 


148  The  Man  of  Property 

or  was  ever  likely  to,  but  because  of  something  dis- 
tinguished in  the  sound.  Four-in-hand  Forsyte!  Not 
bad!  Born  too  soon,  S within  had  missed  his  vocation. 
Coming  upon  London  twenty  years  later,  he  could  not 
have  failed  to  have  become  a  stockbroker,  but  at  the 
time  when  he  was  obliged  to  select,  this  great  profes- 
sion had  not  as  yet  become  the  chief  glory  of  the 
upper  middle  class.  He  had  literally  been  forced  into 
auctioneering. 

Once  in  the  driving  seat,  with  the  reins  handed  to  him, 
and  blinking  over  his  pale  old  cheeks  in  the  full  sunlight, 
he  took  a  slow  look  round.  Adolf  was  already  up  be- 
hind; the  cockaded  groom  at  the  horses'  heads  stood 
ready  to  let  go;  everything  was  prepared  for  the  signal, 
and  Swithin  gave  it.  The  equipage  dashed  forward,  and 
before  you  could  say  Jack  Robinson,  with  a  rattle  and 
flourish  drew  up  at  Soames's  door. 

Irene  came  out  at  once,  and  stepped  in — he  afterward 
described  it  at  Timothy's — "as  Hght  as — er — Taglioni, 
no  fuss  about  it,  no  wanting  this  or  wanting  that" ;  and 
above  all,  Swithin  dwelt  on  this,  staring  at  Mrs.  Septimus 
in  a  way  that  disconcerted  her  a  good  deal,  "no  silly 
nervousness!  "  To  Aunt  Hester  he  portrayed  Irene's  hat. 
"  Not  one  of  your  great  flopping  things,  sprawling  about, 
and  catching  the  dust,  that  women  are  so  fond  of  nowa- 
days, but  a  neat  little "  he  made  a  circular  motion 

of  his  hand,  "  white  veil — capital  taste.'* 

"What  was  it  made  of  ?"  inquired  Aunt  Hester,  who 
manifested  a  languid  but  permanent  excitement  of  any 
mention  of  dress. 

"Made  of  ?"  returned  Swithin;  "now  how  should  / 
know?" 

He  sank  into  silence  so  profound  that  Aunt  Hester 
began  to  be  afraid  he  had  fallen  into  a  trance.  She 
did  not  try  to  rouse  him  herself,  it  not  being  her  custom. 


Drive  with  Swithin  149 

"I  wish  somebody  would  come,"  she  thought;  "I 
don't  like  the  look  of  him!  " 

But  suddenly  Swithin  returned  to  life.  "Made  of?" 
he  wheezed  out  slowly,  "what  should  it  be  made  of?" 

They  had  not  gone  four  miles  before  Swithin  received 
the  impression  that  Irene  liked  driving  with  him.  Her 
face  was  so  soft  behind  that  white  veil,  and  her  dark 
eyes  shone  so  in  the  spring  light,  and  whenever  he  spoke 
she  raised  them  to  him  and  smiled. 

On  Saturday  morning  Soames  had  found  Irene  at  her 
writing-table  with  a  note  written  to  Swithin,  putting 
him  off.  Why  did  she  want  to  put  him  off?  he  asked. 
She  might  put  her  own  people  off  when  she  liked,  he 
would  not  have  her  putting  off  his  people! 

She  had  looked  at  him  intently,  had  torn  up  the  note, 
and  said  :  "Very  well!" 

And  then  she  began  writing  another.  He  took  a 
casual  glance  presently,  and  saw  that  it  was  addressed 
to  Bosinney. 

"What  are  you  writing  to  him  about?"  he  asked. 

Irene,  looking  at  him  again  with  that  intent  look, 
said  quietly:  "  Something  he  wanted  me  to  do  for  him! " 

"Humph!"  said  Soames.  "Commissions!  You'll 
have  your  work  cut  out  if  you  begin  that  sort  of  thing! " 
He  said  no  more. 

Swithin  opened  his  eyes  at  the  mention  of  Robin  Hill ; 
it  was  a  long  way  for  his  horses,  and  he  always  dined 
at  half -past  seven,  before  the  rush  at  the  Club  began ;  the 
new  chef  took  more  trouble  with  an  early  dinner — a 
lazy  rascal! 

He  would  like  to  have  a  look  at  the  house,  however. 
A  house  appealed  to  any  Forsyte,  and  especially  to  one 
who  had  been  an  auctioneer.  After  all  he  said  the 
distance  was  nothing.  When  he  was  a  younger  man 
he  had  had  rooms  at  Richmond  for  many  years,  kept 


15°  The  Man  of  Property 

> 

his  carriage  and  pair  there,  and  drove  them  up  and 
down  to  business  every  day  of  his  life.  Four-in-hand 
Forsyte  they  called  him!  His  T-cart,  his  horses  had 
been  known  from  Hyde  Park  Corner  to  the  Star  and 

Garter.  The  Duke  of  Z wanted  to  get  hold  of  them, 

would  have  given  him  double  the  money,  but  he  had 
kept  them;  know  a  good  thing  when  you  have  it,  eh? 
A  look  of  solemn  pride  came  portentously  on  his  shaven 
square  old  face,  he  rolled  his  head  in  his  stand-up  collar, 
like  a  turkey-cock  preening  himself. 

She  was  really  a  charming  woman!  He  enlarged 
upon  her  frock  afterwards  to  Aunt  Juley,  who  held  up 
her  hands  at  his  way  of  putting  it. 

Fitted  her  like  a  skin — tight  as  a  drum ;  that  was  how 
he  liked  'em,  all  of  a  piece,  none  of  your  daverdy,  scare- 
crow women!  He  gazed  at  Mrs.  Septimus  Small,  who 
took  after  James — long  and  thin. 

"There  's  style  about  her,"  he  went  on, "fit  for  a  king! 
And  she  's  so  quiet  with  it  too!  " 

"She  seems  to  have  made  quite  a  conquest  of  you, 
any  way, "  drawled  Aunt  Hester  from  her  corner. 

Swithin  heard  extremely  well  when  anybody  attacked 
him. 

"What  's  that?"  he  said.  "I  know  a— pretty 
— woman  when  I  see  one,  and  all  I  can  say  is,  I  don't 
see  the  young  man  about  that 's  fit  for  her ;  but  perhaps — 
you — do,  come,  perhaps — you — do!" 

"Oh?"    murmured  Aunt  Hester,  "ask  Juley!" 

Long  before  they  reached  Robin  Hill,  however,  the 
unaccustomed  airing  had  made  him  terribly  sleepy; 
he  drove  with  his  eyes  closed,  a  life-time  of  deportment 
alone  keeping  his  tall  and  bulky  form  from  falling  askew. 

Bosinney,  who  was  watching,  came  out  to  meet  them, 
and  all  three  entered  the  house  together;  Swithin  in 
front  making  play  with  a  stout  gold-mounted  Malacca 


Drive  with  Swithin  151 

cane,  put  into  his  hand  by  Adolf,  for  his  knees  were 
feeling  the  effects  of  their  long  stay  in  the  same  position. 
He  had  assumed  his  fur  coat,  to  guard  against  the 
draughts  of  the  unfinished  house. 

The  staircase — he  said — was  handsome!  the  baronial 
style!  They  would  want  some  statuary  about!  He 
came  to  a  standstill  between  the  columns  of  the  doorway 
into  the  inner  court,  and  held  out  his  cane  inquiringly. 

What  was  this  to  be — this  vestibule,  or  whatever  they 
called  it?  But  gazing  at  the  skylight,  inspiration  came 
to  him. 

"Ah!  the  billiard-room!" 

When  told  it  was  to  be  a  tiled  court  with  plants  in  the 
centre,  he  turned  to  Irene: 

"Waste  this  on  plants?  You  take  my  advice  and 
have  a  billiard  table  here!  " 

Irene  smiled.  She  had  lifted  her  veil,  banding  it  like 
a  nun's  coif  across  her  forehead,  and  the  smile  of  her 
dark  eyes  below  this  seemed  to  Swithin  more  charming 
than  ever.  He  nodded.  She  would  take  his  advice  he  saw. 

He  had  little  to  say  of  the  drawing-  or  dining-rooms, 
which  he  described  as  "spacious";  but  fell  into  such 
raptures  as  he  permitted  to  a  man  of  his  dignity,  in 
the  wine-cellar,  to  which  he  descended  by  stone  steps, 
Bosinney  going  first  with  a  light. 

"You'll  have  room  here,"  he  said,  "for  six  or  seven 
hundred  dozen — a  very  pooty  little  cellar!  " 

Bosinney  having  expressed  the  wish  to  show  them  the 
house  from  the  copse  below,  Swithin  came  to  a  stop. 

"There  'sa  fine  view  from  here,"  he  remarked;  "you 
haven't  such  a  thing  as  a  chair?" 

A  chair  was  brought  him  from  Bosinney's  tent. 

"You  go  down,"  he  said  blandly;  "you  two!  I'll 
sit  here  and  look  at  the  view." 

He  sat  down  by  the  oak-tree,  in  the  sun;  square  and 


152  The  Man  of  Property 

upright,  with  one  hand  stretched  out,  resting  on  the  nob 
of  his  cane,  the  other  planted  on  his  knee;  his  fur  coat 
thrown  open,  his  hat,  roofing  with  its  flat  top  the  pale 
square  of  his  face;  his  stare,  very  blank,  fixed  on  the 
landscape. 

He  nodded  to  them  as  they  went  off  down  through 
the  fields.  He  was,  indeed,  not  sorry  to  be  left  thus  for 
a  quiet  moment  of  reflection.  The  air  was  balmy,  not 
too  much  heat  in  the  sun;  the  prospect  a  fine  one, 
a  remarka — .  His  head  fell  a  little  to  one  side;  he 
jerked  it  up  and  thought:  Odd!  He — ah!  They  were 
waving  to  him  from  the  bottom!  He  put  up  his  hand, 
and  moved  it  more  than  once.  They  were  active — the 
prospect  was  remar — .  His  head  fell  to  the  left,  he 
jerked  it  up  at  once ;  it  fell  to  the  right.  It  remained 
there ;  he  was  asleep. 

And  asleep,  a  sentinel  on  the  top  of  the  rise,  he  ap- 
peared to  rule  over  this  prospect — remarkable — like 
some  image  blocked  out  by  the  special  artist  of  primeval 
Forsytes  in  pagan  days,  to  record  the  domination  of 
mind  over  matter! 

And  all  the  unnumbered  generations  of  his  yeoman 
ancestors,  wont  of  a  Sunday  to  stand  akimbo  surveying 
their  little  plots  of  land,  their  grey  unmoving  eyes  hiding 
their  instinct  with  its  hidden  roots  of  violence,  their  in- 
stinct for  possession  to  the  exclusion  of  all  the  world — all 
these  unnumbered  generations  seemed  to  sit  there  with 
him  on  the  top  of  the  rise. 

But  from  him,  thus  slumbering,  his  jealous  Forsyte 
spirit  travelled  far,  into  God-knows-what  jungle  of 
fancies;  with  those  two  young  people,  to  see  what  they 
were  doing  down  there  in  the  copse — in  the  copse  where 
the  spring  was  running  riot  with  the  scent  of  sap  and 
bursting  buds,  the  song  of  birds  innumerable,  a  carpet 
of  bluebells  and  sweet  growing  things,  and  the  suu 


Drive  with  Swithin  153 

caught  like  gold  in  the  tops  of  the  trees;  to  see  what 
they  were  doing,  walking  along  there  so  close  together 
on  the  path  that  was  too  narrow ;  walking  along  there  so 
close  that  they  were  always  touching;  to  watch  Irene's 
eyes,  like  dark  thieves,  stealing  the  heart  out  of  the 
spring.  And  a  great  unseen  chaperon,  his  spirit  was 
there,  stopping  with  them  to  look  at  the  little  furry 
corpse  of  a  mole,  not  dead  an  hour,  with  his  mushroom 
and  silver  coat  untouched  by  the  rain  or  dew ;  watching 
over  Irene's  bent  head,  and  the  soft  look  of  her  pitying 
eyes;  and  over  that  young  man's  head,  gazing  at  her  so 
hard,  so  strangely.  Walking  on  with  them,  too,  across 
the  open  space  where  a  wood-cutter  had  been  at  work, 
where  the  bluebells  were  trampled  down,  and  a  trunk  had 
swayed  and  staggered  down  from  its  gashed  stump. 
Climbing  it  with  them,  over,  and  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
copse,  whence  there  stretched  an  undiscovered  country, 
from  far  away  in  which  came  the  sounds,  "  Cuckoo — 
cuckoo  !  " 

Silent,  standing  with  them  there,  and  uneasy  at  their 
silence!  Very  queer,  very  strange! 

Then  back  again,  as  though  guilty,  through  the  wood — 
back  to  the  cutting,  still  silent,  amongst  the  songs  of 
birds  that  never  ceased,  and  the  wild  scent — hum!  what 
was  it — like  that  herb  they  put  in — back  to  the  log 
across  the  path. 

And  then  unseen,  uneasy,  flapping  above  them,  trying 
to  make  noises,  his  Forsyte  spirit  watched  her  balanced 
on  the  log,  her  pretty  figure  swaying,  smiling  down  at 
that  young  man  gazing  up  with  such  strange,  shining 
eyes;  slipping  now — a-ah!  falling,  o-oh!  sliding — down 
his  breast;  her  soft,  warm  body  clutched,  her  head  bent 
back  from  his  lips;  his  kiss;  her  recoil;  his  cry:  "You 
must  know — I  love  you  ! "  Must  know — indeed,  a 
pretty ?  Love  !  Hah  ! 


154  The  Man  of  Property 

Swithin  awoke;  virtue  had  gone  out  of  him.  He  had 
a  taste  in  his  mouth.  Where  was  he  ? 

Damme  !  He  had  been  asleep! 

He  had  dreamed  something  about  a  new  soup,  with  a 
taste  of  mint  in  it. 

Those  young  people — where  had  they  got  to?  His 
left  leg  had  pins  and  needles. 

''Adolf!"  The  rascal  was  not  there;  the  rascal  was 
asleep  somewhere. 

He  stood  up,  tall,  square,  bulky  in  his  fur,  looking 
anxiously  down  over  the  fields,  and  presently  he  saw 
them  coming. 

Irene  was  in  front;  that  young  fellow — what  had 
they  nicknamed  him — "The  Buccaneer?" — looked  pre- 
cious hangdog  there  behind  her ;  had  got  a  flea  in  his  ear, 
he  should  n't  wonder.  Serve  him  right,  taking  her  down 
all  that  way  to  look  at  the  house  !  The  proper  place  to 
look  at  a  house  was  from  the  lawn. 

They  saw  him.  He  extended  his  arm,  and  moved 
it  spasmodically  to  encourage  them.  But  they  had 
stopped.  What  were  they  standing  there  for,  talking — 
talking?  They  came  on  again.  She  had  been  giving 
him  a  rub,  he  had  not  the  least  doubt  of  it,  and  no 
wonder,  over  a  house  like  that — a  great  ugly  thing,  not 
the  sort  of  house  he  was  accustomed  to. 

He  looked  intently  at  their  faces,  with  his  pale,  im- 
movable stare.  That  young  man  looked  very  queer  ! 

"You'll  never  make  anything  of  this!"  he  said 
tartly,  pointing  at  the  mansion;  "too  new-fangled!" 

Bosinney  gazed  at  him  as  though  he  had  not  heard; 
and  Swithin  afterwards  described  him  to  Aunt  Hester 
as  "an  extravagant  sort  of  fellow — very  odd  way  of 
looking  at  you — a  bumpy  beggar  ! " 

What  gave  rise  to  this  sudden  piece  of  psychology  he 
did  not  state;  possibly  Bosinney's  prominent  forehead 


Drive  with  S within  155 

and  cheek-bones  and  chin,  or  something  hungry  in  his 
face,  which  quarrelled  with  Swithin's  conception  of 
the  calm  satiety  that  should  characterise  the  perfect 
gentleman. 

He  brightened  up  at  the  mention  of  tea.  He  had  a 
contempt  for  tea — his  brother  Jolyon  had  been  in  tea ; 
made  a  lot  of  money  by  it — but  he  was  so  thirsty,  and 
had  such  a  taste  in  his  mouth,  that  he  was  prepared  to 
drink  anything.  He  longed  to  inform  Irene  of  the 
taste  in  his  mouth — she  was  so  sympathetic — but  it 
would  not  be  a  distinguished  thing  to  do;  he  rolled  his 
tongue  round,  and  faintly  smacked  it  against  his  palate. 

In  a  far  corner  of  the  tent  Adolf  was  bending  his 
cat-like  moustaches  over  a  kettle.  He  left  it  at  once  to 
draw  the  cork  of  a  pint-bottle  of  champagne.  Swithin 
smiled,  and,  nodding  at  Bosinney,  said:  "Why,  you're 
quite  a  Monte  Cristo  ! "  This  celebrated  novel — one  of  the 
half-dozen  he  had  read — had  produced  an  extraordinary 
impression  on  his  mind. 

Taking  his  glass  from  the  table,  he  held  it  away  from 
him  to  scrutinise  the  colour;  thirsty  as  he  was,  it  was 
not  likely  that  he  was  going  to  drink  trash  !  Then, 
placing  it  to  his  lips,  he  took  a  sip. 

"A  very  nice  wine,"  he  said  at  last,  passing  it  before 
his  nose ;  ' '  not  the  equal  of  my  Heidsieck  ! " 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  idea  came  to  him 
which  he  afterwards  imparted  at  Timothy's  in  this 
nut -shell:  "I  should  n't  wonder  a  bit  if  that  architect 
chap  were  sweet  upon  Mrs.  Soames  ! " 

And  from  this  moment  his  pale,  round  eyes  never 
ceased  to  bulge  with  the  interest  of  his  discovery. 

"The  fellow,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Septimus,  "follows  her 
about  with  his  eyes  like  a  dog — the  bumpy  beggar  !  I 
don't  wonder  at  it — she's  a  very  charming  woman, 
and,  I  should  say,  the  pink  of  discretion  ! "  A  vague 


1 56  The  Man  of  Property 

consciousness  of  perfume  clinging  about  Irene,  like  that 
from  a  flower  with  half-closed  petals  and  a  passionate 
heart,  moved  him  to  the  creation  of  this  image.  "But 
I  was  n't  sure  of  it, "  he  said,  "till  I  saw  him  pick  up  her 
handkerchief.  " 

Mrs.  Small's  eyes  boiled  with  excitement. 

"And  did  he  give  it  back  to  her?"  she  asked. 

"Give  it  back?"  said  Swithin:  "I  saw  him  slobber  on 
it  when  he  thought  I  was  n't  looking  ! " 

Mrs.  Small  gasped — too  interested  to  speak. 

"But  she  gave  him  no  encouragement,"  went  on 
Swithin;  he  stopped,  and  stared  for  a  minute  or  two 
in  the  way  that  alarmed  Aunt  Hester  so — he  had  sud- 
denly recollected  that,  as  they  were  starting  back  in 
the  phaeton,  she  had  given  Bosinney  her  hand  a  second 
time,  and  let  it  stay  there,  too.  He  had  touched  his 
horses  smartly  with  the  whip,  anxious  to  get  her  all 
to  himself.  But  she  had  looked  back,  and  she  had  not 
answered  his  first  question;  neither  had  he  been  able 
to  see  her  face — she  had  kept  it  hanging  down. 

There  is  somewhere  a  picture,  which  Swithin  has  not 
seen,  of  a  man  sitting  on  a  rock,  and  by  him,  immersed  in 
the  still,  green  water,  a  sea-nymph  lying  on  her  back, 
with  her  hand  on  her  naked  breast.  She  has  a  half- 
smile  on  her  face — a  smile  of  hopeless  surrender  and  of 
secret  joy.  Seated  by  Swithin's  side,  Irene  may  have 
been  smiling  like  that. 

When,  warmed  by  champagne,  he  had  her  all  to  him- 
self, he  unbosomed  himself  of  his  wrongs;  of  his  smothered 
resentment  against  the  new  chef  at  the  Club;  his  worry 
over  the  house  in  Wigmore  Street,  where  the  rascally  ten- 
ant had  gone  bankrupt  through  helping  his  brother-in-law 
— as  if  charity  did  not  begin  at  home;  of  his  deafness, 
too,  and  that  pain  he  sometimes  got  in  his  right  side. 
She  listened,  her  eyes  swimming  under  their  lids.  He 


Drive  with  S within  157 

thought  she  was  thinking  deeply  of  his  troubles, 
and  pitied  himself  terribly.  Yet  in  his  fur  coat, 
with  frogs  across  the  breast,  his  top  hat  aslant,  driv- 
ing this  beautiful  woman,  he  had  never  felt  more 
distinguished. 

A  coster,  however,  taking  his  girl  for  a  Sunday  airing, 
seemed  to  have  the  same  impression  about  himself.  This 
person  had  flogged  his  donkey  into  a  gallop  alongside, 
and  sat,  upright  as  a  waxwork,  in  his  shallopy  chariot, 
his  chin  settled  pompously  on  a  red  handkerchief,  like 
Swithin's  on  his  full  cravat;  while  his  girl,  with  the  ends 
of  a  fly-blown  boa  floating  out  behind,  aped  a  woman  of 
fashion.  Her  swain  moved  a  stick  with  a  ragged  bit 
of  string  dangling  from  the  end,  reproducing  with  strange 
fidelity  the  circular  flourish  of  Swithin's  whip,  and 
rolled  his  head  at  his  lady  with  a  leer  that  had  a  weird 
likeness  to  Swithin's  primeval  stare. 

Though  for  a  time  unconscious  of  the  lowly  ruffian's 
presence,  S  within  presently  took  it  into  his  head  that  he 
was  being  guyed.  He  laid  his  whip-lash  across  the 
mare's  flank.  The  two  chariots,  however,  by  some 
unfortunate  fatality,  continued  abreast.  Swithin's  yel- 
low, puffy  face  grew  red;  he  raised  his  whip  to  lash  the 
costermonger,  but  was  saved  from  so  far  forgetting  his 
dignity  by  a  special  intervention  of  Providence.  A 
carriage  driving  out  through  a  gate  forced  phaeton  and 
donkey-cart  into  proximity;  the  wheels  grated,  the 
lighter  vehicle  skidded,  and  was  overturned. 

S  within  did  not  look  round.  On  no  account  would  he 
have  pulled  up  to  help  the  ruffian.  Serve  him  right  if  he 
had  broken  his  neck  ! 

But  he  could  not  if  he  would.  The  greys  had  taken 
alarm.  The  phaeton  swung  from  side  to  side,  and 
people  raised  frightened  faces  as  they  went  dashing  past. 
Swithin's  great  arms,  stretched  at  full  length,  tugged  at 


158  The  Man  of  Property 

the  reins.  His  cheeks  were  puffed,  his  lips  compressed, 
his  swollen  face  was  of  a  dull,  angry  red. 

Irene  had  her  hand  on  the  rail,  and  at  every  lurch  she 
gripped  it  tightly.  Swithin  heard  her  ask  : 

"Are  we  going  to  have  an  accident,  Uncle 
Swithin? " 

He  gasped  out  between  his  pants:  "It's  nothing;  a 
—little  fresh!" 

"I  've  never  been  in  an  accident." 

"Don't  you  move!"  He  took  a  look  at  her.  She 
was  smiling,  perfectly  calm.  "Sit  still,"  he  repeated. 
"Never  fear,  I'll  get  you  home  !" 

And  in  the  midst  of  all  his  terrible  efforts,  he  was 
surprised  to  hear  her  answer  in  a  voice  not  like  her  own: 

"7  don't  care  if  I  never  get  home  /" 

The  carriage  giving  a  terrific  lurch,  Swithin' s  exclama- 
tion was  jerked  back  into  his  throat.  The  horses,  winded 
by  the  rise  of  a  hill,  now  steadied  to  a  trot,  and  finally 
stopped  of  their  own  accord. 

i'When" — Swithin  described  it  at  Timothy's — "I 
pulled  'em  up,  there  she  was  as  cool  as  myself.  God 
bless  my  soul  !  she  behaved  as  if  she  did  n't  care  whether 
she  broke  her  neck  or  not !  What  was  it  she  said: 
*I  don't  care  if  I  never  get  home!''  Leaning 
over  the  handle  of  his  cane,  he  wheezed  out,  to 
Mrs.  Small's  terror:  "And  I  'm  not  altogether  sur- 
prised, with  a  finickin'  feller  like  young  Soames  for  a 
husband!" 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  wonder  what  Bosinney  had 
done  after  they  had  left  him  there  alone:  whether  he  had 
gone  wandering  about  like  the  dog  to  which  Swithin  had 
compared  him ;  wandering  down  to  that  copse  where  the 
spring  was  still  in  riot,  the  cuckoo  still  calling  from 
afar,  gone  down  there  with  her  handkerchief  pressed 
to  his  lips,  its  fragrance  mingling  with  the  scent  of  mint 


Drive  with  Swithin  159 

and  thyme;  gone  down  there  with  such  a  wild,  ex- 
quisite pain  in  his  heart  that  he  could  have  cried  out 
among  the  trees; — or  what,  indeed,  the  fellow  had  done. 
In  fact,  till  he  came  to  Timothy's,  Swithin  had  forgotten 
all  about  him. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

JAMES  GOES  TO  SEE  FOR  HIMSELF 

THOSE  ignorant  of  Forsyte  'Change  would  not, 
perhaps,  foresee  all  the  stir  made  by  Irene's  visit 
to  the  house. 

After  Swithin  had  related  at  Timothy's  the  full  story 
of  his  memorable  drive,  the  same,  with  the  least  sus- 
picion of  curiosity,  the  merest  touch  of  malice,  and  a 
real  desire  to  do  good,  was  passed  on  to  June. 

"And  what  a  dreadful  thing  to  say,  my  dear  ! "  ended 
Aunt  Juley;  "that  about  not  going  home.  What  did 
she  mean?" 

It  was  a  strange  recital  for  the  girl.  She  heard  it 
flushing  painfully,  and,  suddenly,  with  a  curt  handshake, 
took  her  departure. 

"Almost  rude!"  Mrs.  Small  said  to  Aunt  Hester, 
when  June  was  gone. 

The  proper  construction  was  put  on  her  reception  of 
the  news.  She  was  upset.  Something  was  therefore 
very  wrong.  Odd !  She  and  Irene  had  been  such 
friends  ! 

It  all  tallied  too  well  with  whispers  and  hints  that 
had  been  going  about  for  some  time  past.  Recollections 
of  Euphemia's  account  of  the  visit  to  the  theatre — Mr. 
Bosinney  always  at  Soames's?  Oh,  indeed  !  Yes,  of 
course,  he  would  be — about  the  house  !  Nothing  open. 
Only  upon  the  greatest,  the  most  important  provocation 

160 


James  Goes  to  See  for  Himself      161 

was  it  necessary  to  say  anything  open  on  Forsyte  'Change. 
This  machine  was  too  nicely  adjusted;  a  hint,  the  merest 
trifling  expression  of  regret  or  doubt,  sufficed  to  set  the 
family  soul — so  sympathetic — vibrating.  No  one  de- 
sired that  harm  should  come  of  these  vibrations — far 
from  it ;  they  were  set  in  motion  with  the  best  intentions, 
with  the  feeling  that  each  member  of  the  family  had  a 
stake  in  the  family  soul. 

And  much  kindness  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  gossip; 
it  would  frequently  result  in  visits  of  condolence  being 
made,  in  accordance  with  the  customs  of  society, 
thereby  conferring  a  real  benefit  upon  the  sufferers, 
and  affording  consolation  to  the  sound,  who  felt  pleas- 
antly that  some  one  at  all  events  was  suffering  from  that 
from  which  they  themselves  were  not  suffering.  In 
fact,  it  was  simply  a  desire  to  keep  things  well-aired, 
the  desire  which  animates  the  Public  Press,  that  brought 
James,  for  instance,  into  communication  with  Mrs. 
Septimus,  Mrs.  Septimus  with  the  little  Nicholases, 
the  little  Nicholases  with  who-knows-whom,  and  so 
on.  That  great  class  to  which  they  had  risen,  and  now 
belonged,  demanded  a  certain  candour,  a  still  more 
certain  reticence.  This  combination  guaranteed  their 
membership. 

Many  of  the  younger  Forsytes  felt,  very  naturally, 
and  would  openly  declare,  that  they  did  not  want  their 
affairs  pried  into;  but  so  powerful  was  the  invisible, 
magnetic  current  of  family  gossip,  that  for  the  life  of 
them  they  could  not  help  knowing  all  about  everything. 
It  was  felt  to  be  hopeless. 

One  of  them  (young  Roger)  had  made  an  heroic 
attempt  to  free  the  rising  generation,  by  speaking  of 
Timothy  as  an  "old  cat."  The  effort  had  justly  recoiled 
upon  himself;  the  words,  coming  round  in  the  most 
delicate  way  to  Aunt  Juley's  ears,  were  repeated  by  her 
ii 


162  The  Man  of  Property 

in  a  shocked  voice  to  Mrs.  Roger,  whence  they  returned 
again  to  young  Roger. 

And,  after  all,  it  was  only  the  wrong-doers  who 
suffered;  as,  for  instance,  George,  when  he  lost  all  that 
money  playing  billiards;  or  young  Roger  himself,  when 
he  was  so  dreadfully  near  to  marrying  the  girl  to  whom, 
it  was  whispered,  he  was  already  married  by  the  laws 
of  Nature;  or  again  Irene,  who  was  thought,  rather  than 
said,  to  be  in  danger. 

All  this  was  not  only  pleasant  but  salutary.  And  it 
made  so  many  hours  go  lightly  at  Timothy's  in  the 
Bayswater  Road;  so  many  hours  that  must  otherwise 
have  been  sterile  and  heavy  to  those  three  who  lived 
there ;  and  Timothy 's  was  but  one  of  hundreds  of  such 
homes  in  this  city  of  London — the  homes  of  neutral 
persons  of  the  secure  classes,  who  are  out  of  the  battle 
themselves,  and  must  find  their  reason  for  existing,  in 
the  battles  of  others. 

But  for  the  sweetness  of  family  gossip,  it  must  indeed 
have  been  lonely  there.  Rumours  and  tales,  reports, 
surmises — were  they  not  the  children  of  the  house,  as 
dear  and  precious  as  the  prattling  babes  the  brother 
and  sisters  had  missed  in  their  own  journey?  To  talk 
about  them,  was  as  near  as  they  could  get  to  the  pos- 
session of  all  those  children  and  grandchildren  after 
whom  their  soft  hearts  yearned.  For  though  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  Timothy's  heart  yearned,  it  is  indubitable 
that  at  the  arrival  of  each  fresh  Forsyte  child  he  was 
quite  upset. 

Useless  for  young  Roger  to  say,  "Old  cat!" — for 
Euphemia  to  hold  up  her  hands  and  cry:  "Oh!  those 
three  ! "  and  break  into  her  silent  laugh  with  the  squeak 
at  the  end.  Useless,  and  not  too  kind. 

The  situation  which  at  this  stage  might  seem,  and, 
especially  to  Forsyte,  eyes,  strange — not  to  say  "im- 


James  Goes  to  See  for  Himself      163 

possible" — was,  in  view  of  certain  facts,  not  so  strange 
after  all. 

Some  things  had  been  lost  sight  of. 

And  first,  in  the  security  bred  of  many  harmless  mar- 
riages, it  had  been  forgotten  that  Love  is  no  hot-house 
flower,  but  a  wild  plant,  born  of  a  wet  night,  born  of  an 
hour  of  sunshine;  sprung  from  wild  seed,  blown  along 
the  road  by  a  wild  wind.  A  wild  plant  that,  when  it 
blooms  by  chance  within  the  hedge  of  our  gardens,  we 
call  a  flower;  and  when  it  blooms  outside  we  call  a  weed; 
but,  flower  or  weed,  whose  scent  and  colour  are  always 
wild! 

And  further — the  facts  and  figures  of  their  own  lives 
being  against  the  perception  of  this  truth — it  was  not 
generally  recognised  by  Forsytes  that,  where  this  wild 
plant  springs,  men  and  women  are  but  moths  around 
the  pale,  flame-like  blossom. 

It  was  long  since  young  Jolyon's  escapade;  there 
was  danger  of  a  tradition  again  arising  that  people 
in  their  position  never  cross  the  hedge  to  pluck  that 
flower;  that  one  could  reckon  on  having  love,  like 
measles,  once  in  due  season,  and  getting  over  it  comfort- 
ably for  all  time — as  with  measles,  on  a  soothing  mixture 
of  butter  and  honey — in  the  arms  of  wedlock. 

Of  all  those  whom  this  strange  rumour  about  Bosinney 
and  Mrs.  Soames  reached,  James  was  the  most  affected. 
He  had  long  forgotten  how  he  had  hovered,  lanky  and 
pale,  in  side  whiskers  of  chestnut  hue,  round  Emily, 
in  the  days  of  his  own  courtship.  He  had  long  forgotten 
the  small  house  in  the  purlieus  of  Mayfair,  where  he  had 
spent  the  early  days  of  his  married  life,  or  rather  he 
had  long  forgotten  the  early  days,  not  the  small  house, — • 
a  Forsyte  never  forgot  a  house ;  he  had  afterwards  sold 
it  at  a  clear  profit  of  four  hundred  pounds. 

He  had  long  forgotten  those  days,  with  their  hopes 


1 64  The  Man  of  Property 

and  fears  and  doubts  about  the  prudence  of  the  match 
(for  Emily,  though  pretty,  had  nothing,  and  he  himself 
at  that  time  was  making  a  bare  thousand  a  year),  and 
that  strange,  irresistible  attraction  that  had  drawn  him 
on,  till  he  felt  he  must  die  if  he  could  not  marry  the 
girl  with  the  fair  hair,  looped  so  neatly  back,  the  fair 
arms  emerging  from  a  skin-tight  bodice,  the  fair  form 
decorously  shielded  by  a  cage  of  really  stupendous 
circumference. 

James  had  passed  through  the  fire,  but  he  had  passed 
also  through  the  river  of  years  that  washes  out  the  fire; 
he  had  experienced  the  saddest  experience  of  all — for- 
getfulness  of  what  it  was  like  to  be  in  love. 

Forgotten!  Forgotten  so  long,  that  he  had  forgotten 
even  that  he  had  forgotten. 

And  now  this  rumour  had  come  upon  him,  this  rumour 
about  his  son's  wife;  very  vague,  a  shadow  dodging 
among  the  palpable,  straightforward  appearances  of 
things,  unreal,  unintelligible  as  a  ghost,  but  carrying 
with  it,  like  a  ghost,  inexplicable  terror. 

He  tried  to  bring  it  home  to  his  mind,  but  it  was  no 
more  use  than  trying  to  apply  to  himself  one  of  those 
tragedies  he  read  of  daily  in  his  evening  paper.  He 
simply  could  not.  There  could  be  nothing  in  it.  It 
was  all  their  nonsense.  She  did  n't  get  on  with  Soames 
as  well  as  she  might,  but  she  was  a  good  little  thing — a 
good  little  thing  ! 

Like  the  not  inconsiderable  majority  of  men,  James 
relished  a  nice  little  bit  of  scandal,  and  would  say,  in  a 
matter-of-fact  tone,  licking  his  lips,  "Yes,  yes — she  and 
young  Dyson;  they  tell  me  they  're  living  at  Monte 
Carlo!" 

But  the  significance  of  an  affair  of  this  sort — of  its  past, 
its  present,  or  its  future — had  never  struck  him.  What 
it  meant,  what  torture  and  raptures  had  gone  to  its 


James  Goes  to  See  for  Himself      165 

construction,  what  slow,  overmastering  fate  had  lurked 
within  the  facts,  very  naked,  sometimes  sordid,  but 
generally  spicy,  presented  to  his  gaze.  He  was  not  in 
the  habit  of  blaming,  praising,  drawing  deductions,  of 
generalising  at  all  about  such  things ;  he  simply  listened 
rather  greedily,  and  repeated  what  he  was  told,  rinding 
considerable  benefit  from  the  practice,  as  from  the  con- 
sumption of  a  sherry  and  bitters  before  a  meal. 

Now,  however,  that  such  a  thing — or  rather  the 
rumour,  the  breath  of  it — had  come  near  him  personally, 
he  felt  as  in  the  fog,  which  filled  his  mouth  full  of  a  bad, 
thick  flavour,  and  made  it  difficult  to  draw  breath. 

A  scandal !     A  possible  scandal ! 

To  repeat  this  word  to  himself  thus  was  the  only  way 
in  which  he  could  focus  or  make  it  thinkable.  He  had 
forgotten  the  sensations  necessary  for  understanding 
the  progress,  fate,  or  meaning  of  any  such  business; 
he  simply  could  no  longer  grasp  the  possibilities  of 
people  running  any  risk  for  the  sake  of  passion. 

Amongst  all  those  persons  of  his  acquaintance,  who 
went  into  the  city  day  after  day  and  did  their  business 
there,  whatever  it  was,  and  in  their  leisure  moments 
bought  shares,  and  houses,  and  ate  dinners,  and  played 
games,  as  he  was  told,  it  would  have  seemed  to  him 
ridiculous  to  suppose  that  there  were  any  who  would 
run  risks  for  the  sake  of  anything  so  recondite,  so  figura- 
tive, as  passion. 

Passion  !  He  seemed,  indeed,  to  have  heard  of  it,  and 
rules  such  as  ' '  A  young  man  and  a  young  woman  ought 
never  to  be  trusted  together"  were  fixed  in  his  mind 
as  the  parallels  of  latitude  are  fixed  on  a  map  (for  all 
Forsytes,  when  it  comes  to  "bed-rock  matters  of  fact, 
have  quite  a  fine  taste  in  realism) ;  but  as  to  anything 
else — well,  he  could  only  appreciate  it  at  all  through  the 
catch- word  "scandal." 


*66  The  Man  of  Property 

Ah  !  but  there  was  no  truth  in  it — could  not  be.  He 
was  not  afraid;  she  was  really  a  good  little  thing.  But 
there  it  was  when  you  got  a  thing  like  that  into  your 
mind.  And  James  was  of  a  nervous  temperament — one 
of  those  men  whom  things  will  not  leave  alone,  who 
suffer  tortures  from  anticipation  and  indecision.  For 
fear  of  letting  something  slip  that  he  might  otherwise 
secure,  he  was  physically  unable  to  make  up  his  mind 
until  absolutely  certain  that,  by  not  making  it  up,  he 
would  suffer  loss. 

In  life,  however,  there  were  many  occasions  when  the 
business  of  making  up  his  mind  did  not  even  rest  with 
himself,  and  this  was  one  of  them. 

What  could  he  do?  Talk  it  over  with  Soames?  That 
would  only  make  matters  worse.  And,  after  all,  there 
was  nothing  in  it,  he  felt  sure. 

It  was  all  that  house.  He  had  mistrusted  the  idea 
from  the  first.  What  did  Soames  want  to  go  into  the 
country  for?  And,  if  he  must  go  spending  a  lot  of  money 
building  himself  a  house,  why  not  have  a  first-rate  man, 
instead  of  this  young  Bosinney,  whom  nobody  knew 
anything  about?  He  had  told  them  how  it  would  be. 
And  he  had  heard  that  the  house  was  costing  Soames 
a  pretty  penny  beyond  what  he  had  reckoned  on  spending. 

This  fact,  more  than  any  other,  brought  home  to 
James  the  real  danger  of  the  situation.  It  was  always 
like  this  with  these  "artistic"  chaps;  a  sensible  man 
should  have  nothing  to  say  to  them.  He  had  warned 
Irene,  too.  And  see  what  had  come  of  it ! 

And  it  suddenly  sprang  into  James's  mind  that  he 
ought  to  go  and  see  for  himself.  In  the  midst  of  that 
fog  of  uneasiness  in  which  his  mind  was  enveloped  the 
notion  that  he  could  go  and  look  at  the  house  afforded 
him  inexplicable  satisfaction.  It  may  have  been  simply 
the  decision  to  do  something — more  possibly  the  fact 


James  Goes  to  See  for  Himself      167 

that  he  was  going  to  look  at  a  house — that  gave  him 
relief. 

He  felt  that  in  staring  at  an  edifice  of  bricks  and 
mortar,  of  wood  and  stone,  built  by  the  suspected  man 
himself,  he  would  be  looking  into  the  heart  of  that  rumour 
about  Irene. 

Without  saying  a  word,  therefore,  to  any  one,  he  took 
a  hansom  to  the  station  and  proceeded  by  train  to  Robin 
Hill;  thence — there  being  no  "flies,"  in  accordance  with 
the  custom  of  the  neighbourhood — he  found  himself 
obliged  to  walk. 

He  started  slowly  up  the  hill,  his  angular  knees  and 
high  shoulders  bent  complainingly,  his  eyes  fixed  on  his 
feet,  yet  neat  for  all  that,  in  his  high  hat  and  his  frock- 
coat,  on  which  was  the  speckless  gloss  imparted  by  per- 
fect superintendence.  Emily  saw  to  that;  that  is,  she 
did  not,  of  course,  see  to  it — people  of  good  position  not 
seeing  to  each  other's  buttons,  and  Emily  was  of  good 
position — but  she  saw  that  the  butler  saw  to  it. 

He  had  to  ask  his  way  three  times ;  on  each  occasion 
he  repeated  the  directions  given  him,  got  the  man  to 
repeat  them,  then  repeated  them  a  second  time,  for  he 
was  naturally  of  a  talkative  disposition,  and  one  could 
not  be  too  careful  in  a  new  neighbourhood. 

He  kept  assuring  them  that  it  was  a  new  house  he  was 
looking  for;  it  was  only,  however,  when  he  was  shown 
the  roof  through  the  trees  that  he  could  feel  really  satis- 
fied that  he  had  not  been  directed  entirely  wrong. 

A  heavy  sky  seemed  to  cover  the  world  with  the  grey 
whiteness  of  a  whitewashed  ceiling.  There  was  no 
freshness  or  fragrance  in  the  air.  On  such  a  day  even 
British  workmen  scarcely  cared  to  do  more  than  they 
were  obliged,  and  moved  about  their  business  without 
the  drone  of  talk  that  whiles  away  the  pangs  of  labour. 

Through  spaces  of  the  unfinished  house,  shirt-sleeved 


1 68  The  Man  of  Property 

figures  worked  slowly,  and  sounds  arose — spasmodic 
knockings,  the  scraping  of  metal,  the  sawing  of  wood, 
with  the  rumble  of  wheel-barrows  along  boards;  now 
and  again  the  foreman's  dog,  tethered  by  a  string  to  an 
oaken  beam,  whimpered  feebly,  with  a  sound  like  the 
singing  of  a  kettle. 

The  fresh-fitted  window-panes,  daubed  each  with  a 
white  patch  in  the  centre,  stared  out  at  James  like  the 
eyes  of  a  blind  dog. 

And  the  building  chorus  went  on,  strident  and  mirth- 
less under  the  grey- white  sky.  But  the  thrushes,  hunting 
amongst  the  fresh-turned  earth  for  worms,  were  silent 
quite. 

James  picked  his  way  among  the  heaps  of  gravel — the 
drive  was  being  laid — till  he  came  opposite  the  porch. 
Here  he  stopped  and  raised  his  eyes.  There  was  but 
little  to  see  from  this  point  of  view,  and  that  little 
he  took  in  at  once;  but  he  stayed  in  this  posi- 
tion many  minutes,  and  who  shall  know  of  what  he 
thought. 

His  china-blue  eyes  under  white  eyebrows  that  jutted 
out  in  little  horns,  never  stirred;  the  long  upper  lip  of 
his  wide  mouth,  between  the  fine  white  whiskers,  twitched 
once  or  twice;  it  was  easy  to  see  from  that  anxious,  rapt 
expression,  whence  Soames  derived  the  handicapped 
look  which  sometimes  came  upon  his  face.  James  might 
have  been  saying  to  himself:  "I  don't  know — life's  a 
tough  job." 

In  this  position  Bosinney  surprised  him. 

James  brought  his  eyes  down  from  whatever  bird's- 
nest  they  had  been  looking  for  in  the  sky  to  Bosinney's 
face,  on  which  was  a  kind  of  humorous  scorn. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Forsyte?  Come  down  to  see  for 
yourself?" 

It  was  exactly  what  James,  as  we  know,  had  come  for, 


James  Goes  to  See  for  Himself      169 

and  he  was  made  correspondingly  uneasy.  He  held  out 
his  hand,  however,  saying: 

"How  are  you?"  without  looking  at  Bosinney. 

The  latter  made  way  for  him  with  an  ironical  smile. 

James  scented  something  suspicious  in  this  courtesy. 
"I  should  like  to  walk  round  the  outside  first,"  he  said, 
"  and  see  what  you've  been  doing  ! " 

A  flagged  terrace  of  rounded  stones  with  a  list  of  two 
or  three  inches  to  port  had  been  laid  round  the  south- 
east and  south-west  sides  of  the  house,  and  ran  with  a 
bevelled  edge  into  mould,  which  was  in  preparation  for 
being  turfed ;  along  this  terrace  James  led  the  way. 

''Now  what  did  this  cost ? "  he  asked,  when  he  saw  the 
terrace  extending  round  the  corner. 

"What  should  you  think?"    inquired  Bosinney. 

"How  should  I  know?"  replied  James  somewhat  non- 
plussed; "two  or  three  hundred,  I  dare  say!" 

"The  exact  sum!" 

James  gave  him  a  sharp  look,  but  the  architect  ap- 
peared unconscious,  and  he  put  the  answer  down  to 
mishearing. 

On  arriving  at  the  garden  entrance,  he  stopped  to  look 
at  the  view. 

"That  ought  to  come  down,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
oak-tree. 

"You  think  so?  You  think  that  with  the  tree  there 
you  don't  get  enough  view  for  your  money?" 

Again  James  eyed  him  suspiciously — this  young  man 
had  a  peculiar  way  of  putting  things:  "Well,"  he  said, 
with  a  perplexed,  nervous  emphasis,  "I  don't  see  what 
you  want  with  a  tree." 

"It  shall  come  down  to-morrow,'*  said  Bosinney. 

James  was  alarmed.  "Oh, "  he  said,  "don't  go  saying 
I  said  it  was  to  come  down!  /know  nothing  about  it!" 


1 70  The  Man  of  Property 

James  went  on  in  a  fluster:  "Why,  what  should  I 
know  about  it?  It  's  nothing  to  do  with  me!  You  do  it 
on  your  own  responsibility." 

"You'll  allow  me  to  mention  your  name?" 

James  grew  more  and  more  alarmed:  "I  don't  know 
what  you  want  mentioning  my  name  for,"  he  muttered; 
4 '  you  'd  better  leave  the  tree  alone.  It 's  not  your  tree ! ' ' 

He  took  out  a  silk  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  brow. 
They  entered  the  house.  Like  Swithin,  James  was  im- 
pressed by  the  inner  court-yard. 

"You  must  have  spent  a  deuce  of  a  lot  of  money  here, " 
he  said,  after  staring  at  the  columns  and  gallery  for  some 
time.  ' '  Now,  what  did  it  cost  to  put  up  those  columns  ? ' ' 

"I  can't  tell  you  off-hand,"  thoughtfully  answered 
Bosinney,  "but  I  know  it  was  a  deuce  of  a  lot!  " 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  James.  "I  should " 

He  caught  the  architect's  eye,  and  broke  off.  And  now, 
whenever  he  came  to  anything  of  which  he  desired  to 
know  the  cost,  he  stifled  that  curiosity. 

Bosinney  appeared  determined  that  he  should  see 
everything,  and  had  not  James  been  of  too  "noticing"  a 
nature,  he  would  certainly  have  found  himself  going 
round  the  house  a  second  time.  He  seemed  so  anxious 
to  be  asked  questions,  too,  that  James  felt  he  must  be 
on  his  guard.  He  began  to  suffer  from  his  exertions, 
for,  though  wiry  enough  for  a  man  of  his  long  build,  he 
was  seventy-five  years  old. 

He  grew  discouraged ;  he  seemed  no  nearer  to  anything, 
had  not  obtained  from  his  inspection  any  of  the  know- 
ledge he  had  vaguely  hoped  for.  He  had  merely  in- 
creased his  dislike  and  mistrust  of  this  young  man, 
who  had  tired  him  out  with  his  politeness,  and  in  whose 
manner  he  now  certainly  detected  mockery. 

The  fellow  was  sharper  than  he  had  thought,  and 
better-looking  than  he  had  hoped.  He  had  a  "don't 


James  Goes  to  See  for  Himself      171 

care"  appearance  that  James,  to  whom  risk  was  the 
most  intolerable  thing  in  life,  did  not  appreciate;  a 
peculiar  smile,  too,  coming  when  least  expected;  and 
very  queer  eyes.  He  reminded  James,  as  he  said  after- 
wards, of  a  hungry  cat.  This  was  as  near  as  he  could  get , 
in  conversation  with  Emily,  to  a  description  of  the 
peculiar  exasperation,  velvetiness,  and  mockery,  of 
which  Bosinney's  manner  had  been  composed. 

At  last,  having  seen  all  that  was  to  be  seen,  he  came 
out  again  at  the  door  where  he  had  gone  in;  and  now. 
feeling  that  he  was  wasting  time  and  strength  and 
money,  all  for  nothing,  he  took  the  courage  of  a  Forsyte 
in  both  hands,  and,  looking  sharply  at  Bosinney,  said: 

' '  I  dare  say  you  see  a  good  deal  of  my  daughter-in-law ; 
now,  what  does  she  think  of  the  house?  But  she  has  n't 
seen  it,  I  suppose?" 

This  he  said,  knowing  all  about  Irene's  visit — not, 
of.  course,  that  there  was  anything  in  the  visit,  except 
that  extraordinary  remark  she  had  made  about  "not 
caring  to  get  home" — and  the  story  of  how  June  had 
taken  the  news! 

He  had  determined,  by  this  way  of  putting  the  ques- 
tion, to  give  Bosinney  a  chance,  as  he  said  to  himself. 

The  latter  was  long  in  answering,  but  kept  his  eyes 
with  uncomfortable  steadiness  on  James. 

"She  has  seen  the  house,  but  I  can't  tell  you  what 
she  thinks  of  it." 

Nervous  and  baffled,  James  was  constitutionally  pre- 
vented from  letting  the  matter  drop. 

' '  Oh ! "  he  said,  ' '  she  has  seen  it  ?  Soames  brought  her 
down,  I  suppose?" 

Bosinney  smilingly  replied:    "Oh,  no!" 

"What,  did  she  come  down  alone?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Then— who  brought  her?" 


i72  The  Man  of  Property 

"I  really  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  tell  you  who 
brought  her." 

To  James,  who  knew  that  it  was  Swithin,  this  answer 
appeared  incomprehensible. 

"Why! "  he  stammered,  "you  know  that "  but  he 

stopped,  suddenly  perceiving  his  danger. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "if  you  don't  want  to  tell  me,  I 
suppose  you  won't!  Nobody  tells  me  anything." 

Somewhat  to  his  surprise  Bosinney  asked  him  a 
question. 

"By  the  by,"  he  said,  "could  you  tell  me  if  there  are 
likely  to  be  any  more  of  you  coming  down?  I  should 
like  to  be  on  the  spot! " 

"Any  more?"  said  James  bewildered,  "who  should 
there  be  more  ?  I  don't  know  of  any  more.  Good-bye. ' ' 

Looking  at  the  ground  he  held  out  his  hand,  crossed 
the  palm  of  it  with  Bosinney's,  and  taking  his  umbrella 
just  above  the  silk,  walked  away  along  the  terrace. 

Before  he  turned  the  corner  he  glanced  back,  and  saw 
Bosinney  following  him  slowly — "slinking  along  the 
wall"  as  he  put  it  to  himself,  "like  a  great  cat."  He 
paid  no  attention  when  the  young  fellow  raised  his  hat. 

Outside  the  drive,  and  out  of  sight,  he  slackened  his 
pace  still  more.  Very  slowly,  more  bent  than  when  he 
came,  lean,  hungry,  and  disheartened,  he  made  his  way 
back  to  the  station. 

The  Buccaneer,  watching  him  go  so  sadly  home,  fe*t 
sorry  perhaps  for  his  behaviour  to  the  old  man. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SOAMES  AND  BOSINNEY  CORRESPOND 

JAMES  said  nothing  to  his  son  of  this  visit  to  the  house; 
but,  having  occasion  to  go  to  Timothy's  one  morn- 
ing on  a  matter  connected  with  a  drainage  scheme 
which  was  being  forced  by  the  sanitary  authorities  on 
his  brother,  he  mentioned  it  there. 

It  was  not,  he  said,  a  bad  house.  He  could  see  that  a 
good  deal  could  be  made  of  it.  The  fellow  was  clever 
in  his  way,  though  what  it  was  going  to  cost  Soames 
before  it  was  done  with  he  did  n't  know. 

Euphemia  Forsyte,  who  happened  to  be  in  the  room — 
she  had  come  round  to  borrow  the  Rev.  Mr.  Scoles's 
last  novel,  Passion  and  Paregoric,  which  was  having 
such  a  vogue — chimed  in: 

"I  saw  Irene  yesterday  at  the  Stores;  she  and  Mr. 
Bosinney  were  having  a  nice  little  chat  in  the  Groceries." 

It  was  thus,  simply,  that  she  recorded  a  scene  which 
had  really  made  a  deep  and  complicated  impression  on 
her.  She  had  been  hurrying  to  the  silk  department  of 
the  Church  and  Commercial  Stores — that  Institution 
than  which,  with  its  admirable  system,  admitting  only 
guaranteed  persons  on  a  basis  of  payment  before  de- 
livery, no  emporium  can  be  more  highly  recom- 
mended to  Forsytes — to  match  a  piece  of  prunella  silk 
for  her  mother,  who  was  waiting  in  the  carriage  outside. 

Passing  through  the  Groceries  her  eye  was  unpleasantly 
attracted  by  the  back  view  of  a  very  beautiful  figure.  It 

173 


174  The  Man  of  Property 

was  so  charmingly  proportioned,  so  balanced,  and  so 
•well  clothed,  that  Euphemia's  instinctive  propriety 
was  at  once  alarmed ;  such  figures,  she  knew,  by  intuition 
rather  than  experience,  were  rarely  connected  with 
virtue — certainly  never  in  her  mind,  for  her  own  back 
was  somewhat  difficult  to  fit. 

Her  suspicions  were  fortunately  confirmed.  A  young 
man  coming  from  the  Drugs  had  snatched  off  his  hat, 
and  was  accosting  the  lady  with  the  unknown  back. 

It  was  then  that  she  saw  with  whom  she  had  to  deal ; 
the  lady  was  undoubtedly  Mrs.  Soames,  the  young  man 
Mr.  Bosinney.  Concealing  herself  rapidly  over  the  pur- 
chase of  a  box  of  Tunisian  dates,  for  she  was  impa- 
tient of  awkwardly  meeting  people  with  parcels  in  her 
hands,  and  at  the  busy  time  of  the  morning,  she  was 
thus  quite  unintentionally  an  interested  observer  of 
their  little  interview. 

Mrs.  Soames,  usually  somewhat  pale,  had  a  delightful 
colour  in  her  cheeks;  and  Mr.  Bosinney 's  manner  was 
strange,  though  attractive  (she  thought  him  rather  a 
distinguished-looking  man,  and  George's  name  for  him, 
"The  Buccaneer" — about  which  there  was  something 
romantic — quite  charming) .  He  seemed  to  be  pleading. 
Indeed,  they  talked  so  earnestly — or,  rather,  he  talked  so 
earnestly,  for  Mrs.  Soames  did  not  say  much — that  they 
caused,  inconsiderately,  an  eddy  in  the  traffic.  One 
nice  old  General,  going  towards  Cigars,  was  obliged  to 
step  quite  out  of  the  way,  and  chancing  to  look  up  and 
see  Mrs.  Soames's  face,  he  actually  took  off  his  hat,  the 
old  fool !  So  like  a  man ! 

But  it  was  Mrs.  Soames's  eyes  that  worried  Euphemia. 
She  never  once  looked  at  Mr.  Bosinney  until  he  moved  on 
and  then  she  looked  after  him.  And,  oh,  that  look! 

On  that  look  Euphemia  had  spent  much  anxious 
thought.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  it  had  hurt 


Soames  and  Bosinney  Correspond  175 

her  with  its  dark,  lingering  softness,  for  all  the  world 
as  though  the  woman  wanted  to  drag  him  back,  and 
unsay  something  she  had  been  saying. 

Ah,  well,  she  had  had  no  time  to  go  deeply  into  the 
matter  just  then,  with  that  prunella  silk  on  her  hands, 
but  she  was  "very  intrigue e — very!"  She  had  just 
nodded  to  Mrs.  Soames,  to  show  her  that  she  had  seen ; 
and,  as  she  confided,  in  talking  it  over  afterwards,  to  her 
chum  Francie  (Roger's  daughter),  "Did  n't  she  look 
caught  out  just  ?  ..." 

James,  most  averse  at  the  first  blush  to  accepting  any 
news  confirmatory  of  his  own  poignant  suspicions,  took 
her  up  at  once. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "they'd  be  after  wall-papers  no  doubt.'' 

Euphemia  smiled.  "In  the  Groceries?"  she  said 
softly;  and,  taking  Passion  and  Paregoric  from  the 
table,  added:  "And  so  you '11  lend  me  this,  dear  Auntie ? 
Good-bye!  "  and  went  away. 

James  left  almost  immediately  after;  he  was  late  as  it 
was. 

When  he  reached  the  office  of  Forsyte,  Bustard,  & 
Forsyte,  he  found  Soames  sitting  in  his  revolving  chair, 
drawing  up  a  defence.  The  latter  greeted  his  father 
with  a  curt  good-morning,  and,  taking  an  envelope 
from  his  pocket,  said: 

"It  may  interest  you  to  look  through  this." 

James  read  as  follows: 

"  3090,  SLOANE  STREET, 

"  May  15. 
"DEAR  FORSYTE, 

"The  construction  of  your  house  being  now  com- 
pleted, my  duties  as  architect  have  corne  to  an  end.  If  I 
am  to  go  on  with  the  business  of  decoration,  which  at 
your  request  I  undertook,  I  should  like  you  to  clearly 
understand  that  I  must  have  a  free  hand. 


1 76  The  Man  of  Property 

"You  never  come  down  without  suggesting  something 
that  goes  counter  to  my  scheme.  I  have  here  three 
letters  from  you,  each  of  which  recommends  an  article 
I  should  never  dream  of  putting  in.  I  had  your  father 
here  yesterday  afternoon,  who  made  further  valuable 
suggestions. 

"Please  make  up  your  mind,  therefore,  whether  you 
want  me  to  decorate  for  you,  or  to  retire,  which  on  the 
whole  I  should  prefer  to  do. 

"But  understand  that,  if  I  decorate,  I  decorate  alone 
without  interference  of  any  sort 

"If  I  do  the  thing,  I  will  do  it  thoroughly,  but  I  must 
have  a  free  hand. 

"Yours  truly, 

"PHILIP  BOSINNEY." 

The  exact  and  immediate  cause  of  this  letter  cannot, 
of  course,  be  told,  though  it  is  not  improbable  that 
Bosinney  may  have  been  moved  by  some  sudden  revolt 
against  his  position  towards  Soames — that  eternal 
position  of  Art  towards  Property — which  is  so  admirably 
summed  up,  on  the  back  of  the  most  indispensable  of 
modern  appliances,  in  a  sentence  comparable  to  the  very 
finest  in  Tacitus: 

THOS.  T.  SORROW, 

Inventor. 

BERT.  M.  PADLAND, 

Proprietor. 

"What  are  you  going  to  say  to  him?"  James  asked. 

Soames  did  not  even  turn  his  head.  "I  have  n't  made 
up  my  mind,"  he  said,  and  went  on  with  his  defence. 

A  client  of  his,  having  put  some  buildings  on  a  piece 
of  ground  that  did  not  belong  to  him,  had  been  suddenly 
and  most  irritatingly  warned  to  take  them  off  again. 


Soames  and  Bosinney  Correspond  177 

After  carefully  going  into  the  facts,  however,  Soames 
had  seen  his  way  to  advise  that  his  client  had  what  was 
known  as  a  title  by  possession,  and  that,  though  un- 
doubtedly the  ground  did  not  belong  to  him,  he  was 
entitled  to  keep  it,  and  had  better  do  so ;  and  he  was  now 
following  up  this  advice  by  taking  steps  to — as  the 
sailors  say — "make  it  so." 

He  had  a  distinct  reputation  for  sound  advice;  people 
saying  of  him:  "Go  to  young  Forsyte — a  long-headed 
fellow ! "  and  he  prized  this  reputation  highly. 

His  natural  taciturnity  was  in  his  favour;  nothing 
could  be  more  calculated  to  give  people,  especially 
people  with  property  (Soames  had  no  other  clients), 
the  impression  that  he  was  a  safe  man.  And  he  was 
safe.  Tradition,  habit,  education,  inherited  aptitude, 
native  caution,  all  joined  to  form  a  solid  professional 
honesty,  superior  to  temptation  from  the  very  fact  that  it 
was  built  on  an  innate  avoidance  of  risk.  How  could  he 
fall,  when  his  soul  abhorred  circumstances  which  render 
a  fall  possible — a  man  cannot  fall  off  the  floor! 

And  those  countless  Forsytes,  who,  in  the  course  of 
innumerable  transactions  concerned  with  property  of  all 
sorts  (from  wives  to  water  rights) ,  had  occasion  for  the 
services  of  a  safe  man,  found  it  both  reposeful  and 
profitable  to  confide  in  Soames.  That  slight  super- 
ciliousness of  his,  combined  with  an  air  of  mousing 
amongst  precedents,  was  in  his  favour  too — a  man 
would  not  be  supercilious  unless  he  knew! 

He  was  really  at  the  head  of  the  business,  for  though 
James  still  came  nearly  every  day  to  see  for  himself,  he 
did  little  now  but  sit  in  his  chair,  twist  his  legs,  slightly 
confuse  things  already  decided,  and  presently  go  away 
again,  and  the  other  partner,  Bustard,  was  a  poor  thing 
who  did  a  great  deal  of  work,  but  whose  opinion  was 
never  taken. 


1 78  The  Man  of  Property 

So  Soames  went  steadily  on  with  his  defence.  Yet  it 
would  be  idle  to  say  that  his  mind  was  at  ease.  He 
was  suffering  from  a  sense  of  impending  trouble,  that 
had  haunted  him  for  some  time  past.  He  tried  to  think 
it  physical — a  condition  of  his  liver — but  knew  that  it 
was  not. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he 
was  due  at  the  General  Meeting  of  the  New  Colliery 
Company — one  of  Uncle  Jolyon's  concerns;  he  should 
see  Uncle  Jolyon  there,  and  say  something  to  him  about 
Bosinney — he  had  not  made  up  his  mind  what,  but  some- 
thing— in  any  case  he  should  not  answer  this  letter  until 
he  had  seen  Uncle  Jolyon.  He  got  up  and  methodically 
put  away  the  draft  of  his  defence.  Going  into  a  dark 
little  cupboard,  he  turned  up  the  light,  washed  his  hands 
with  a  piece  of  brown  Windsor  soap,  and  dried  them  on 
a  roller  towel.  Then  he  brushed  his  hair,  paying  strict 
attention  to  the  parting,  turned  down  the  light,  took  his 
hat.  and  saying  he  would  be  back  at  half-past  two, 
stepped  into  the  Poultry. 

It  was  not  far  to  the  Offices  of  the  New  Colliery  Com- 
pany in  Ironmonger  Lane,  where,  and  not  at  the  Cannon 
Street  Hotel,  in  accordance  with  the  more  ambitious 
practice  of  other  companies,  the  General  Meeting  was 
always  held.  Old  Jolyon  had  from  the  first  set  his 
face  against  the  Press.  What  business — he  said — had 
the  Public  with  his  concerns! 

Soames  arrived  on  the  stroke  of  time,  and  took  his 
seat  alongside  the  Board,  who,  in  a  row,  each  Director 
behind  his  own  inkpot,  faced  their  shareholders. 

In  the  centre  of  this  row  old  Jolyon,  conspicuous  in 
his  black,  tightly  buttoned  frock-coat  and  his  white 
moustaches,  was  leaning  back  with  finger  tips  crossed 
on  a  copy  of  the  Directors'  report  and  accounts. 

On  his  right  hand,  always  a  little  larger  than  life,  sat 


Soames  and  Bosinney  Correspond  179 

the  Secretary,  "  Down-by-the-starn "  Hemmings;  an 
all-too-sad  sadness  beaming  in  his  fine  eyes;  his  iron- 
grey  beard,  in  mourning  like  the  rest  of  him,  giving  the 
feeling  of  an  all-too-black  tie  behind  it. 

The  occasion  indeed  was  a  melancholy  one,  only  six 
weeks  having  elapsed  since  that  telegram  had  come  from 
Scorrier,  the  mining  expert,  on  a  private  mission  to  the 
Mines,  informing  them  that  Pippin,  their  Superintendent, 
had  committed  suicide  in  endeavouring,  after  his  extra- 
ordinary two  years'  silence,  to  write  a  letter  to  his  Board. 
That  letter  was  on  the  table  now;  it  would  be  read  to 
the  shareholders,  who  would  of  course  be  put  into 
possession  of  all  the  facts. 

Hemmings  had  often  said  to  Soames,  standing  with 
his  coat-tails  divided  before  the  fireplace: 

"What  our  shareholders  don't  know  about  our 
affairs  is  n't  worth  knowing.  You  may  take  that  from 
me,  Mr.  Soames." 

On  one  occasion,  old  Jolyon  being  present,  Soames 
recollected  a  little  unpleasantness.  His  uncle  had 
looked  up  sharply  and  said:  "Don't  talk  nonsense, 
Hemmings!  You  mean  that  what  they  do  know  is  n't 
worth  knowing!"  Old  Jolyon  detested  humbug. 

Hemmings,  angry-eyed,  and  wearing  a  smile  like  that 
of  a  trained  poodle,  had  replied  in  an  outburst  of  arti- 
ficial applause:  "Come,  now,  that  's  good,  sir — that's 
very  good.  Your  uncle  will  have  his  joke ! ' ' 

The  next  time  he  had  seen  Soames  he  had  taken  the 
opportunity  of  saying  to  him:  "The  chairman's  getting 
very  old — I  can't  get  him  to  understand  things;  and 
he's  so  wilful — but  what  can  you  expect,  with  a  chin 
like  his?" 

Soames  had  nodded. 

Every  one  knew  that  Uncle  Jolyon's  chin  was  a 
caution.  He  was  looking  worried  to-day,  in  spite  of 


i8o  The  Man  of  Property 

his  General  Meeting  look;  he  (Soames)  should  certainly 
speak  to  him  about  Bosinney. 

Beyond  old  Jolyon  on  the  left  was  little  Mr.  Booker, 
and  he,  too,  wore  his  General  Meeting  look,  as  though 
searching  for  some  particularly  tender  shareholder.  And 
next  him  was  the  deaf  director,  with  a  frown;  and 
beyond  the  deaf  director,  again,  was  old  Mr.  Bleedham, 
very  bland,  and  having  an  air  of  conscious  virtue — as 
well  he  might,  knowing  that  the  brown-paper  parcel  he 
always  brought  to  the  Board-room  was  concealed  behind 
his  hat  (one  of  that  old-fashioned  class  of  flat-brimmed 
top-hats  which  go  with  very  large  bow  ties,  clean-shaven 
lips,  fresh  cheeks,  and  neat  little  white  whiskers). 

Soames  always  attended  the  General  Meeting;  it  was 
considered  better  that  he  should  do  so,  in  case  "anything 
should  arise! "  He  glanced  round  with  his  close,  super- 
cilious air  at  the  walls  of  the  room,  where  hung  plans 
of  the  mine  and  harbour,  together  with  a  large  photo- 
graph of  a  shaft  leading  to  a  working  that  had  proved 
quite  remarkably  unprofitable.  This  photograph — -a 
witness  to  the  eternal  irony  underlying  commercial 
enterprise — still  retained  its  position  on  the  wall,  an 
effigy  of  the  Directors'  pet,  but  dead,  lamb. 

And  now  old  Jolyon  rose,  to  present  the  report  and 
accounts. 

Veiling  under  a  Jove-like  serenity  that  perpetual  an- 
tagonism deep-seated  in  the  bosom  of  a  director  towards 
his  shareholders,  he  faced  them  calmly.  Soames  faced 
them  too.  He  knew  most  of  them  by  sight.  There  was 
old  Scrubsole,  a  tar  man,  who  always  came,  as  Hemmings 
would  say,  "to  make  himself  nasty,"  a  cantankerous- 
looking  old  fellow  with  a  red  face,  a  jowl,  and  an  enormous 
low-crowned  hat  reposing  on  his  knee.  And  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Boms,  who  always  proposed  a  vote  of  thanks  to  the 
chairman,  in  which  he  invariably  expressed  the  hope 


Soames  and  Bosinney  Correspond  181 

that  the  Board  would  not  forget  to  elevate  their  employees, 
using  the  word  with  a  double  e,  as  being  more  vigorous 
and  Anglo-Saxon  (he  had  the  strong  Imperialistic 
tendencies  of  his  cloth).  It  was  his  salutary  custom 
to  buttonhole  the  director  afterwards,  and  ask  him 
whether  he  thought  the  coming  year  would  be  good  or 
bad;  and,  according  to  the  trend  of  the  answer,  to  buy 
or  sell  three  shares  within  the  ensuing  fortnight. 

And  there  was  that  military  man,  Major  0 'Bally,  who 
could  not  help  speaking,  if  only  to  second  the  re-election 
of  the  auditor,  and  who  sometimes  caused  serious  con- 
sternation by  taking  toasts — proposals  rather — out  of 
the  hands  of  persons  who  had  been  flattered  with  little 
slips  of  paper,  entrusting  the  said  proposals  to  their  care. 

These  made  up  the  lot,  together  with  four  or  five 
strong,  silent  shareholders,  with  whom  Soames  could 
sympathise — men  of  business,  who  liked  to  keep  an  eye 
on  their  affairs  for  themselves,  without  being  fussy — 
good,  solid  men,  who  came  to  the  city  every  day  and 
went  back  in  the  evening  to  good,  solid  wives. 

Good,  solid  wives!  There  was  something  in  that 
thought  which  roused  the  nameless  uneasiness  in  Soames 
again. 

What  should  he  say  to  his  uncle?  What  answer 
should  he  make  to  this  letter  ? 

"If  any  shareholder  has  any  question  to  put,  I 
shall  be  glad  to  answer  it."  A  soft  thump.  Old  Jolyon 
had  let  the  report  and  accounts  fall,  and  stood  twisting 
his  gold  glasses  between  his  thumb  and  forefinger. 

The  ghost  of  a  smile  appeared  on  Soames 's  face. 
They  had  better  hurry  up  with  their  questions!  He 
well  knew  his  uncle's  method  (the  ideal  one)  of  at  once 
saying:  "I  propose,  then,  that  the  report  and  accounts 
t»e  adopted!"  Never  let  them  get  their  wind — share- 
holders were  notoriously  wasteful  of  timel 


1 82  The  Man  of  Property 

A  tall,  white-bearded  man,  with  a  gaunt  dissatisfied 
face,  arose: 

"I  believe  I  am  in  order,  Mr.  Chairman,  in  raising  a 
question  on  this  figure  of  £5000  in  the  accounts.  'To 
the  widow  and  family '  ' '  (he  looked  sourly  round) , 
"  'of  our  late  Superintendent/  who  so — -er — ill-ad visedly 
(I  say  — ill-advisedly)  committed  suicide,  at  a  time  when 
his  services  were  of  the  utmost  value  to  this  Company. 
You  have  stated  that  the  agreement  which  he  has  so 
unfortunately  cut  short  with  his  own  hand  was  for  a 

period  of  five  years,  of  which  one  only  had  expired 
j » 

Old  Jolyon  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"I  believe  I  am  in  order,  Mr.  Chairman — I  ask  whether 
this  amount  paid,  or  proposed  to  be  paid,  by  the  Board 
to  the — er — deceased — is  for  services  which  might 
have  been  rendered  to  the  Company  had  he  not  com- 
mitted suicide?" 

"It  is  in  recognition  of  past  services,  which  we  all 
know — you  as  well  as  any  of  us — to  have  been  of  vital 
value." 

"Then,  sir,  all  I  have  to  say  is,  that  the  services 
being  past,  the  amount  is  too  much." 

The  shareholder  sat  down. 

Old  Jolyon  waited  a  second  and  said:  "I  now  propose 
that  the  report  and " 

The  shareholder  rose  again:  "May  I  ask  if  the  Board 
realises  that  it  is  not  their  money  which — I  don't  hesi- 
tate to  say  that  if  it  were  their  money " 

A  second  shareholder,  with  a  round,  dogged  face, 
whom  Soames  recognised  as  the  late  Superintendent's 
brother-in-law,  got  up  and  said  warmly:  ' '  In  my  opinion, 
sir,  the  sum  is  not  enough!" 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Boms  now  rose  to  his  feet.  "If  I  may 
venture  to  express  myself,"  he  said,  "I  should  say  that 


Soames  and  Bosinney  Correspond  133 

the  fact  of  the — er — deceased  having  committed  suicide 
should  weigh  very  heavily — very  heavily  with  our  worthy 
chairman.  I  have  no  doubt  it  has  weighed  with  him, 
for — I  say  this  for  myself  and  I  think  for  everyone  present 
(hear,  hear) — he  enjoys  our  confidence  in  a  high  degree. 
We  all  desire,  I  should  hope,  to  be  charitable.  But  I 
feel  sure  "  (he  looked  severely  at  the  late  Superintendent's 
brother-in-law)  "that  he  will  in  some  way,  by  some 
written  expression,  or  better  perhaps  by  reducing  the 
amount,  record  our  grave  disapproval  that  so  promising 
and  valuable  a  life  should  have  been  thus  impiously 
removed  from  a  sphere  where  both  its  own  interests  and 
— if  I  may  say  so — our  interests  so  imperatively  de- 
manded its  continuance.  We  should  not — nay,  we  may 
not — countenance  so  grave  a  dereliction  of  all  duty,  both 
human  and  divine." 

The  reverend  gentleman  resumed  his  seat.  The  late 
Superintendent's  brother-in-law  again  rose:  "What  I 
have  said  I  stick  to,"  he  said ;  "the  amount  is  not  enough!" 

The  first  shareholder  struck  in:  "I  challenge  the 
legality  of  the  payment.  In  my  opinion  this  payment 
is  not  legal.  The  Company's  solicitor  is  present;  I 
believe  I  am  in  order  in  asking  him  the  question." 

All  eyes  were  now  turned  upon  Soames.  Something 
had  arisen! 

He  stood  up,  close-lipped  and  cold ;  his  nerves  inwardly 
fluttered,  his  attention  tweaked  away  at  last  from  con- 
templation of  that  cloud  looming  on  the  horizon  of  his 
mind. 

"The  point,"  he  said  in  a  low,  thin  voice,  "is  by  no 
means  clear.  As  there  is  no  possibility  of  future  con- 
sideration being  received,  it  is  doubtful  whether  the 
payment  is  strictly  legal.  If  it  is  desired,  the  opinion  of 
the  court  could  be  taken." 

The    Superintendent's    brother-in-law    frowned,  and 


1 84  The  Man  of  Property 

said  in  a  meaning  tone:  "We  have  no  doubt  the  opinion 
of  the  court  could  be  taken.  May  I  ask  the  name  of 
the  gentleman  who  has  given  us  that  striking  piece 
of  information?  Mr.  Soames  Forsyte?  Indeed!"  He 
looked  from  Soames  to  old  Jolyon  in  a  pointed  manner. 

A  flush  coloured  Soames 's  pale  cheeks,  but  his  super- 
ciliousness did  not  waver.  Old  Jolyon  fixed  his  eyes  on 
the  speaker. 

"If,"  he  said,  "the  late  Superintendent's  brother-in- 
law  has  nothing  more  to  say,  I  propose  that  the  reports 
and  accounts " 

At  this  moment,  however,  there  rose  one  of  those  five 
silent,  stolid  shareholders,  who  had  excited  Soames's 
sympathy.  He  said: 

"I  deprecate  the  proposal  altogether.  We  are  ex- 
pected to  give  charity  to  this  man's  wife  and  children 
who,  you  tell  us,  were  dependent  on  him.  They  may 
have  been;  I  do  not  care  whether  they  were  or  not.  I 
object  to  the  whole  thing  on  principle.  It  is  high 
time  a  stand  was  made  against  this  sentimental  human- 
itarianism.  The  country  is  eaten  up  with  it.  I  object 
to  my  money  being  paid  to  these  people  of  whom  I  know 
nothing,  who  have  done  nothing  to  earn  it.  I  object  in 
toto;  it  is  not  business.  I  now  move  that  the  report  and 
accounts  be  put  back,  and  amended  by  striking  out  the 
grant  altogether." 

Old  Jolyon  had  remained  standing  while  the  strong, 
silent  man  was  speaking.  The  speech  awoke  an  echo 
in  all  hearts,  voicing,  as  it  did,  the  worship  of  strong 
men,  the  movement  against  generosity,  which  had  at 
that  time  already  commenced  among  the  saner  members 
of  the  community. 

The  words  "it  is  not  business"  had  moved  even  the 
Board;  privately  every  one  felt  that  indeed  it  was  not. 
But  they  knew  also  the  chairman's  domineering  temper 


Soames  and  Bosinney  Correspond  185 

and  tenacity.  He,  too,  at  heart  must  feel  that  it  was 
not  business;  but  he  was  committed  to  his  own  pro- 
position. Would  he  go  back  upon  it?  It  was  thought 
to  be  unlikely. 

All  waited  with  interest.  Old  Jolyon  held  up  his 
hand;  the  gold  eye-glasses  depending  between  his  finger 
and  thumb  quivered  slightly  with  a  suggestion  of 
menace. 

He  addressed  the  strong,  silent  shareholder. 

"Knowing,  as  you  do,  the  efforts  of  our  late  Superin- 
tendent upon  the  occasion  of  the  explosion  at  the 
mines,  do  you  seriously  wish  me  to  put  that  amendment 
sir?" 

"I  do." 

Old  Jolyon  put  the  amendment. 

"Does  any  one  second  this?"  he  asked,  looking 
calmly  round. 

And  it  was  then  that  Soames,  looking  at  his  uncle, 
felt  the  power  of  will  that  was  in  that  old  man.  No  one 
stirred.  Looking  straight  into  the  eyes  of  the  strong, 
silent  shareholder,  old  Jolyon  said: 

"I  now  move,  'That  the  report  and  accounts  for  the 
year  1887  be  received  and  adopted.'  You  second  that? 
Those  in  favour  signify  the  same  in  the  usual  way. 
Contrary — no.  Carried.  The  next  business,  gentle- 
men  " 

Soames  smiled.  Certainly  Uncle  Jolyon  had  a  way 
with  him! 

But  now  his  attention  relapsed  upon  Bosinney.  Odd 
how  that  fellow  haunted  his  thoughts,  even  in  business 
hours. 

Irene's  visit  to  the  house — but  there  was  nothing  in 
that,  except  that  she  might  have  told  him;  but  then, 
again,  she  never  did  tell  him  anything.  She  was  more 
silent,  more  touchy,  every  day.  He  wished  to  God  the 


1 86  The  Man  of  Property 

house  were  finished,  and  they  were  in  it,  away  from 
London.  Town  did  not  suit  her;  her  nerves  were  not 
strong  enough.  That  nonsense  of  the  separate  room 
had  cropped  up  again ! 

The  meeting  was  breaking  up  now.  Underneath  the 
photograph  of  the  lost  shaft  Hemmings  was  button- 
holed by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Boms.  Little  Mr.  Booker,  his 
bristling  eyebrows  wreathed  in  angry  smiles,  was  having 
a  parting  turn-up  with  old  Scrubsole.  The  two  hated 
each  other  like  poison.  There  was  some  matter  of  a 
tar-contract  between  them,  little  Mr.  Booker  having 
secured  it  from  the  Board  for  a  nephew  of  his,  over  old 
Scrubsole 's  head.  Soames  had  heard  that  from  Hem- 
mings, who  liked  a  gossip,  more  especially  about  his 
Directors,  except,  indeed,  old  Jolyon,  of  whom  he  was 
afraid. 

Soames  awaited  his  opportunity.  The  last  shareholder 
was  vanishing  through  the  door,  when  he  approached 
his  uncle,  who  was  putting  on  his  hat. 

"Can  I  speak  to  you  for  a  minute,  Uncle  Jolyon?" 

It  is  uncertain  what  Soames  expected  to  get  out  of 
this  interview. 

Apart  from  that  somewhat  mysterious  awe  in  which 
Forsytes  in  general  held  old  Jolyon,  due  to  his  philosophic 
twist,  or  perhaps — as  Hemmings  would  doubtless  have 
said — to  his  chin,  there  was,  and  always  had  been,  a 
subtle  antagonism  between  the  younger  man  and  the  old. 
It  had  lurked  under  their  dry  manner  of  greeting,  under 
their  non-committal  allusions  to  each  other,  and  arose 
perhaps  from  old  Jolyon's  perception  of  the  quiet 
tenacity  ("obstinacy,"  he  rather  naturally  called  it) 
of  the  young  man,  of  a  secret  doubt  whether  he  could 
get  his  own  way  with  him. 

Both  these  Forsytes,  wide  asunder  as  the  poles  in  many 
respects,  possessed  in  their  different  ways — to  a  greater 


Soames  and  Bosinney  Correspond    187 

degree  than  the  rest  of  the  family — that  essential 
quality  of  tenacious  and  prudent  insight  into  "affairs," 
which  is  the  high- water  mark  of  their  great  class.  Either 
of  them,  with  a  little  luck  and  opportunity,  was  equal 
to  a  lofty  career;  either  of  them  would  have  made  a 
good  financier,  a  great  contractor,  a  statesman,  though 
old  Jolyon,  in  certain  of  his  moods — when  under  the 
influence  of  a  cigar  or  of  Nature — would  have  been 
capable  of,  not  perhaps  despising,  but  certainly  of 
questioning,  his  own  high  position,  while  Soames,  who 
never  smoked  cigars,  would  not. 

Then,  too,  in  old  Jolyon's  mind  there  was  always  the 
secret  ache,  that  the  son  of  James — of  James,  whom 
he  had  always  thought  such  a  poor  thing,  should  be 
pursuing  the  paths  of  success,  while  his  own  son ! 

And  last,  not  least — for  he  was  no  more  outside  the 
radiation  of  family  gossip  than  any  other  Forsyte — he 
had  now  heard  the  sinister,  indefinite,  but  none  the  less 
disturbing  rumour  about  Bosinney,  and  his  pride  was 
wounded  to  the  quick. 

Characteristically,  his  irritation  turned  not  against 
Irene  but  against  Soames.  The  idea  that  his  nephew's 
wife  (why  could  n't  the  fellow  take  better  care  of  her — oh! 
quaint  injustice!  as  though  Soames  could  possibly  take 
more  care!) — should  be  drawing  to  herself  June's  lover, 
was  intolerably  humiliating.  And  seeing  the  danger,  he 
did  not,  like  James,  hide  it  away  in  sheer  nervousness, 
but  owned  with  the  dispassion  of  his  broader  outlook, 
that  it  was  not  unlikely;  there  was  something  very 
attractive  about  Irene! 

He  had  a  presentiment  on  the  subject  of  Soames 's 
communication  as  they  left  the  Board-room  together, 
and  went  out  into  the  noise  and  hurry  of  Cheap  side. 
They  walked  together  a  good  minute  without  speaking, 
Soames  with  his  mousing,  mincing  step,  and  old  Jolyon 


1 88  The  Man  of  Property 

upright  and  using  his  umbrella  languidly  as  a  walking- 
stick. 

They  turned  presently  into  comparative  quiet,  for  old 
Jolyon's  way  to  a  second  Board  led  him  in  the  direction 
of  Moorgate  Street. 

Then  Soames,  without  lifting  his  eyes,  began:  "I've 
had  this  letter  from  Bosinney.  You  see  what  he  says ; 
I  thought  I  'd  let  you  know.  I  've  spent  a  lot  more  than 
I  intended  on  this  house,  and  I  want  the  position  to  be 
clear." 

Old  Jolyon  ran  his  eyes  unwillingly  over  the  letter: 
"  What  he  says  is  clear  enough, "  he  said. 

"He  talks  about  'a  free  hand,'  "  replied  Soames. 

Old  Jolyon  looked  at  him.  The  long-suppressed 
irritation  and  antagonism  towards  this  young  fellow, 
whose  affairs  were  beginning  to  intrude  upon  his  own, 
burst  from  him. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  trust  him,  why  do  you  employ 
him?" 

Soames  stole  a  sideway  look:  "It's  much  too  late 
to  go  into  that,"  he  said,  "I  only  want  it  to  be  quite 
understood  that  if  I  give  him  a  free  hand,  he  does  n't  let 
me  in.  I  thought  if  you  were  to  speak  to  him,  it  would 
carry  more  weight! " 

"No,"  said  old  Jolyon  abruptly;  "I'll  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it!" 

The  words  of  both  uncle  and  nephew  gave  the  im- 
pression of  unspoken  meanings,  far  more  important, 
behind.  And  the  look  they  interchanged  was  like 
a  revelation  of  this  consciousness. 

"Well,"  said  Soames;  "I  thought,  for  June's  sake, 
I'd  tell  you,  that's  all;  I  thought  you'd  better  know  I 
sha*  n't  stand  any  nonsense!" 

"What  is  that  to  me? "  old  Jolyon  took  him  up. 

"  Oh  I  I  don't  know, "  said  Soames,  and  flurried  by  that 


Soames  and  Bosinney  Correspond    189 

sharp  look  he  was  unable  to  say  more.  "Don't  say  I 
did  n't  tell  you,"  he  added  sulkily,  recovering  his 
composure. 

"Tell  me!"  said  old  Jolyon;  "I  don't  know  what  you 
mean.  You  come  worrying  me  about  a  thing  like  this.  / 
don't  want  to  hear  about  your  affairs;  you  must  manage 
them  yourself!" 

"Very  well,"  said  Soames  immovably,  "I  will!" 

"Good-morning,  then,"  said  old  Jolyon,  and  they 
parted. 

Soames  retraced  his  steps,  and  going  into  a  celebrated 
eating-house,  asked  for  a  plate  of  smoked  salmon  and  a 
glass  of  Chablis;  he  seldom  ate  much  in  the  middle  of 
the  day,  and  generally  ate  standing,  finding  the  position 
beneficial  to  his  liver,  which  was  very  sound,  but  to 
which  he  desired  to  put  down  all  his  troubles. 

When  he  had  finished  he  went  slowly  back  to  his  office, 
with  bent  head,  taking  no  notice  of  the  swarming 
thousands  on  the  pavements,  who  in  their  turn  took  no 
notice  of  him. 

The  evening  post  carried  the  following  reply  to 
Bosinney: 

"FORSYTE,  BUSTARD  &  FORSYTE, 
"  Commissioners  for  Oaths, 

"  2001,  BRANCH  LANE,  POULTRY,  E.  C., 

"May  17,  1887. 
"DEAR  BOSINNEY, 

"I  have  received  your  letter,  the  terms  of  which 
not  a  little  surprise  me.  I  was  under  the  impression 
that  you  had,  and  have  had  all  along,  a  'free  hand';  for 
I  do  not  recollect  that  any  suggestions  I  have  been  so 
unfortunate  as  to  make,  have  met  with  your  approval. 
In  giving  you,  in  accordance  with  your  request,  this 
'free  hand,'  I  wish  you  to  clearly  understand  that  the 
total  cost  of  the  house  as  handed  over  to  me  completely 


The  Man  of  Property 

decorated,  inclusive  of  your  fee  (as  arranged  between  us), 
must   not   exceed   twelve   thousand   pounds — £12,000. 
This  gives  you  an  ample  margin,  and,  as  you  know,  is  far 
more  than  I  originally  contemplated. 
"I  am, 

"Yours    truly, 

"SOAMES  FORSYTE." 

On  the  following  day  he  received  a  note  from  Bosinney : 

"  PHILIP  BAYNES  BOSINNEY, 

"  Architect, 

"  3°9D>  SLOANE  STREET,  S.  W., 
"May  18. 

"DEAR  FORSYTE, 

"If  you  think  that  in  such  a  delicate  matter 
as  decoration  I  can  bind  myself  to  the  exact  pound,  I 
am  afraid  you  are  mistaken.  I  can  see  that  you  are 
tired  of  the  arrangement,  and  of  me,  and  I  had  better 
therefore,  resign. 

"Yours  faithfully, 

"PHILIP  BAYNES  BOSINNEY." 

Soames  pondered  long  and  painfully  over  his  answer, 
and  late  at  night  in  the  dining-room,  when  Irene  had 
gone  to  bed,  he  composed  the  following: 

"  62    MONTPELLIER   SQUARE,    S.  W., 

"May  19,  1887. 
"DEAR  BOSINNEY, 

"I  think  that  in  both  our  interests  it  would  be 
extremely  undesirable  that  matters  should  be  so  left 
at  this  stage.  I  did  not  mean  to  say  that  if  you  should 
exceed  the  sum  named  in  my  letter  to  you  by  ten  or 
twenty  or  even  fifty  pounds,  there  would  be  any  diffi- 
culty between  us.  This  being  so,  I  should  like  you  to 
reconsider  your  answer.  You  have  a  'free  hand'  in 


Soames  and  Bosinney  Correspond 

the  terms  of  this  correspondence,  and  I  hope  you  will 
see  your  way  to  completing  the  decorations,  in  the 
matter  of  which  I  know  it  is  difficult  to  be  absolutely 
exact. 

"Yours  truly, 

"  SOAMES  FORSYTE.  " 

Bosinney 's  answer,  which  came  in  the  course  of  the 
next  day,  was: 

"  May  20. 

"DEAR  FORSYTE, 
?' Very  well. 

"PH.  BOSINNEY. n 


CHAPTER  XV 

OLD  JOLYON  AT  THE   ZOO 

OLD  JOLYON  disposed  of  his  second  Meeting — an 
ordinary  Board — summarily.  He  was  so  dicta- 
torial that  his  fellow  Directors  were  left  in  cabal  over 
the  increasing  domineeringness  of  old  Forsyte,  which 
they  were  far  from  intending  to  stand  much  longer, 
they  said. 

He  went  out  by  Underground  to  Portland  Road 
Station,  whence  he  took  a  cab  and  drove  to  the  Zoo. 

He  had  an  assignation  there,  one  of  those  assignations 
that  had  lately  been  growing  more  frequent,  to  which  his 
increasing  uneasiness  about  June  and  the  "  change  in 
her,"  as  he  expressed  it,  was  driving  him. 

She  buried  herself  away,  and  was  growing  thin;  if  he 
spoke  to  her  he  got  no  answer,  or  had  his  head  snapped 
off,  or  she  looked  as  if  she  would  burst  into  tears.  She 
was  as  changed  as  she  could  be,  all  through  this  Bosinney. 
As  for  telling  him  about  anything,  not  a  bit  of  it! 

And  he  would  sit  for  long  spells  brooding,  his  paper 
unread  before  him,  a  cigar  extinct  between  his  lips. 
She  had  been  such  a  companion  to  him  ever  since  she 
was  three  years  old!  And  he  loved  her  so! 

Forces  regardless  of  family  or  class  or  custom  were 
beating  down  his  guard ;  impending  events  over  which  he 
had  no  control  threw  their  shadows  on  his  head.  The 
irritation  of  one  accustomed  to  have  his  way  was  roused 
against  he  knew  not  what. 


Old  Jolyon  at  the  Zoo  193 

Chafing  at  the  slowness  of  his  cab,  he  reached  the 
Zoo  door;  but,  with  his  sunny  instinct  for  seizing  the 
good  of  each  moment,  he  forgot  his  vexation  as  he 
walked  towards  the  tryst. 

From  the  stone  terrace  above  the  bear-pit  his  son  and 
his  two  grandchildren  came  hastening  down  when  they 
saw  old  Jolyon  coming,  and  led  him  away  towards  the 
lion-house.  They  supported  him  on  either  side,  holding 
one  to  each  of  his  hands,  whilst  Jolly,  perverse  like  his 
father,  carried  his  grandfather's  umbrella  in  such  a  way 
as  to  catch  people's  legs  with  the  crutch  of  the  handle. 

Young  Jolyon  followed. 

It  was  as  good  as  a  play  to  see  his  father  with  the 
children,  but  such  a  play  as  brings  smiles  with  tears 
behind.  An  old  man  and  two  small  children  walking 
together  can  be  seen  at  any  hour  of  the  day;  but  the 
sight  of  old  Jolyon,  with  Jolly  and  Holly,  seemed  to 
young  Jolyon  a  special  peep-show  of  the  things  that  lie 
at  the  bottom  of  our  hearts.  The  complete  surrender 
of  that  erect  old  figure  to  those  little  figures  on  either 
hand  was  too  poignantly  tender,  and,  being  a  man  of  an 
habitual  reflex  action,  young  Jolyon  swore  softly  under 
his  breath.  The  show  affected  him  in  a  way  unbecoming 
to  a  Forsyte,  who  is  nothing  if  not  undemonstrative. 

Thus  they  reached  the  lion-house. 

There  had  been  a  morning  fete  at  the  Botanical 
Gardens,  and  a  large  number  of  Forsytes — that  is,  of  well. 
dressed  people  who  kept  carnages — had  brought  them 
on  to  the  Zoo,  so  as  to  have  more,  if  possible,  for  their 
money,  before  going  back  to  Rutland  Gate  or  Bryanston 
Square. 

"Let's  go  to  the  Zoo,"  they  had  said  to  each  other, 
"it'll  be  great  fun!"  It  was  a  shilling  day;  and  there 
would  not  be  all  those  horrid  common  people. 

In  front  of  the  long  line  of  cages  they  were  collected 
13 


194  The  Man  of  Property 

in  rows,  watching  the  tawny,  ravenous  beasts  behind 
the  bars  await  their  only  pleasure  of  the  four-and- 
twenty  hours.  The  hungrier  the  beast,  the  greater  the 
fascination.  But  whether  because  the  spectators  envied 
his  appetite,  or,  more  humanely,  because  it  was  so  soon 
to  be  satisfied,  young  Jolyon  could  not  tell.  Remarks 
kept  falling  on  his  ears  :  "That 's  a  nasty-looking  brute, 
that  tiger!"  "Oh,  what  a  love!  Look  at  his  little 
mouth!"  "Yes,  he's  rather  nice!  Don't  go  too  near, 
mother. " 

And  frequently,  with  little  pats,  one  or  another  would 
clap  their  hands  to  their  pockets  behind  and  look  round, 
as  though  expecting  young  Jolyon  or  some  disinterested- 
looking  person  to  relieve  them  of  the  contents. 

A  well-fed  man  in  a  white  waistcoat  said  slowly 
through  his  teeth:  "  It 's  all  greed;  they  can't  be  hungry. 
Why,  they  take  no  exercise."  At  these  words  a  tiger 
snatched  a  piece  of  bleeding  liver,  and  the  fat  man 
laughed.  His  wife,  in  a  Paris-model  frock  and  gold 
nose-nippers,  reproved  him:  "How  can  you  laugh, 
Harry?  Such  a  horrid  sight!" 

Young  Jolyon  frowned. 

The  circumstances  of  his  life,  though  he  had  ceased  to 
take  a  too  personal  view  of  them,  had  left  him  subject 
to  an  intermittent  contempt;  and  the  class  to  which 
he  had  belonged — the  carriage  class — especially  excited 
his  sarcasm. 

To  shut  up  a  lion  or  tiger  in  confinement  was  surely 
a  horrible  barbarity.  But  no  cultivated  person  would 
admit  this. 

The  idea  of  its  being  barbarous  to  confine  wild  animals 
had  probably  never  occurred  to  his  father  for  instance; 
he  belonged  to  the  old  school,  who  considered  it  at  once 
humanising  and  educational  to  confine  baboons  and 
panthers,  holding  the  view,  no  doubt,  that  in  course  of 


Old  Jolyon  at  the  Zoo  195 

time  they  might  induce  these  creatures  not  so  unreason- 
ably to  die  of  misery  and  heart-sickness  against  the  bars 
of  their  cages,  and  put  the  society  to  the  expense  of 
getting  others!  In  his  eyes,  as  in  the  eyes  of  all  Forsytes, 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  these  beautiful  creatures  in  a  state 
of  captivity  far  outweighed  the  inconvenience  of  im- 
prisonment to  beasts  whom  God  had  so  improvidently 
placed  in  a  state  of  freedom!  It  was  for  the  animals' 
good,  removing  them  at  once  from  the  countless  dan- 
gers of  open  air  and  exercise,  and  enabling  them  to 
exercise  their  functions  in  the  guaranteed  seclusion 
of  a  private  compartment!  Indeed,  it  was  doubtful 
what  wild  animals  were  made  for  but  to  be  shut  up  in 
cages ! 

But  as  young  Jolyon  had  in  his  constitution  the 
elements  of  impartiality,  he  reflected  that  to  stigmatise 
as  barbarity  that  which  was  merely  lack  of  imagination 
must  be  wrong ;  for  none  who  held  these  views  had  been 
placed  in  a  similar  position  to  the  animals  they  caged, 
and  could  not,  therefore,  be  expected  to  enter  into  their 
sensations. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  leaving  the  gardens — Jolly 
and  Holly  in  a  state  of  blissful  delirium — that  old  Jolyon 
found  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  his  son  on  the  matter 
next  his  heart.  "I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it,"  he 
said;  "if  she's  to  go  on  as  she's  going  on  now,  I  can't 
tell  what's  to  come.  I  wanted  her  to  see  the  doctor, 
but  she  won't.  She's  not  a  bit  like  me.  She's  your 
mother  all  over.  Obstinate  as  a  mule !  If  she  does  n  't 
want  to  do  a  thing,  she  won 't,  and  there 's  an  end  of  it ! " 

Young  Jolyon  smiled;  his  eyes  had  wandered  to  his 
father's  chin.  "A  pair  of  you, "  he  thought,  but  he  said 
nothing. 

"And  then,"  went  on  old  Jolyon,  "there's  this 
Bosinney.  I  should  like  to  punch  the  fellow's  head, 


The  Man  of  Property 

but  I  can't,  I  suppose,  though — I  don't  see  why  you 
should  n't,"  he  added  doubtfully. 

"What  has  he  done?  Far  better  that  it  should  come 
to  an  end.  if  they  don't  hit  it  off ! " 

Old  Jolyon  looked  at  his  son.  Now  they  had  actually 
come  to  discuss  a  subject  connected  with  the  relations 
between  the  sexes  he  felt  distrustful.  Jo  would  be  sure 
to  hold  some  loose  view  or  other. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  you  think,"  he  said;  "I 
dare  say  your  sympathy  's  with  him — shouldn't  be 
surprised;  but  I  think  he's  behaving  precious  badly, 
and  if  he  comes  my  way  I  shall  tell  him  so. "  He  dropped 
the  subject. 

It  was  impossible  to  discuss  with  his  son  the  true 
nature  and  meaning  of  Bosinney's  defection.  Had 
not  his  son  done  the  very  same  thing  (worse,  if  possible) 
fifteen  years  ago?  There  seemed  no  end  to  the  conse- 
quences of  that  piece  of  folly! 

Young  Jolyon  was  also  silent;  he  had  quickly  pene- 
trated his  father's  thought,  for,  dethroned  from  the  high 
seat  of  an  obvious  and  uncomplicated  view  of  things, 
he  had  become  both  perceptive  and  subtle. 

The  attitude  he  had  adopted  towards  sexual  matters 
fifteen  years  before,  however,  was  too  different  from 
his  father's.  There  was  no  bridging  the  gulf. 

He  said  coolly:  "I  suppose  he's  fallen  in  love  with 
some  other  woman?" 

Old  Jolyon  gave  him  a  dubious  look:  "I  can't  tell," 
he  said;  "they  say  so  !  " 

"Then,  it's  probably  true,"  remarked  young  Jolyon 
unexpectedly;  "and  I  suppose  they've  told  you  who 
she  is?" 

"Yes,"  said  old  Jolyon— " Soames's  wife!" 

Young  Jolyon  did  not  whistle.  The  circumstances 
of  his  own  life  had  rendered  him  incapable  of  whistling 


Old  Jolyon  at  the  Zoo  197 

on  such  a  subject,  but  he  looked  at  his  father,  while  the 
ghost  of  a  smile  hovered  over  his  face. 

If  old  Jolyon  saw,  he  took  no  notice. 

"She  and  June  were  bosom  friends!"  he  muttered. 

"Poor  little  June!"  said  young  Jolyon  softly.  He 
thought  of  his  daughter  still  as  a  babe  of  three. 

Old  Jolyon  came  to  a  sudden  halt. 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  he  said,  "it's  some  old 
woman's  tale.  Get  me  a  cab,  Jo,  I  'm  tired  to  death ! " 

They  stood  at  a  corner  to  see  if  an  empty  cab  would 
come  along,  while  carriage  after  carriage  drove  past, 
bearing  Forsytes  of  all  descriptions  from  the  Zoo.  The 
harness,  the  liveries,  the  gloss  on  the  horses'  coats,  shone 
and  glittered  in  the  May  sunlight,  and  each  equipage, 
landau,  sociable,  barouche,  Victoria,  or  brougham, 
seemed  to  roll  out  proudly  from  its  wheels: 

I  and  my  horses  and  my  men  you  know, 
Indeed  the  whole  turn-out  have  cost  a  pot. 
But  we  were  worth  it  every  penny.     Look 
At  Master  and  at  Missus  now,  the  dawgs! 
Ease  with  security — Ah!  that 's  the  ticket! 

And  such,  as  every  one  knows,  is  fit  accompaniment 
for  a  perambulating  Forsyte. 

Amongst  these  carriages  was  a  barouche  coming  at  a 
greater  pace  than  the  others,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  bright 
bay  horses.  It  swung  on  its  high  springs,  and  the  four 
people  who  filled  it  seemed  rocked  as  in  a  cradle. 

This  chariot  attracted  young  Jolyon's  attention;  and 
suddenly,  on  the  back  seat,  he  recognised  his  Uncle 
James,  unmistakable  in  spite  of  the  increased  whiteness 
of  his  whiskers;  opposite,  their  backs  defended  by 
sunshades,  Rachel  Forsyte  and  her  younger  but  married 
sister,  Winifred  Dartie,  in  irreproachable  toilettes,  had 
posed  their  heads  haughtily,  like  two  of  the  birds  they 


198  The  Man  of  Property 

had  been  seeing  at  the  Zoo;  while  by  James's  side 
reclined  Dartie,  in  a  brand-new  frock-coat  buttoned 
tight  and  square,  with  a  large  expanse  of  carefully  shot 
linen  protruding  below  each  wrist -band. 

An  extra,  if  subdued,  sparkle,  an  added  touch  of  the 
best  gloss  or  varnish  characterised  this  vehicle,  and 
seemed  to  distinguish  it  from  all  the  others,  as  though 
by  some  happy  extravagance — like  that  which  marks 
out  the  real  * '  work  of  art "  from  the  ordinary ' '  picture  " — 
it  were  designated  as  the  typical  car,  the  very  throne  of 
Forsytedom. 

Old  Jolyon  did  not  see  them  pass ;  he  was  petting  poor 
Holly  who  was  tired,  but  those  in  the  carriage  had  taken 
in  the  little  group;  the  ladies'  heads  tilted  suddenly, 
there  was  a  spasmodic  screening  movement  of  parasols; 
James's  face  protruded  naively,  like  the  head  of  a 
long  bird,  his  mouth  slowly  opening.  The  shield-like 
rounds  of  the  parasols  grew  smaller  and  smaller,  and 
vanished. 

Young  Jolyon  saw  that  he  had  been  recognised,  even 
by  Winifred,  who  could  not  have  been  more  than  fifteen 
when  he  had  forfeited  the  right  to  be  considered  a 
Forsyte. 

There  was  not  much  change  in  them!  He  remembered 
the  exact  look  of  their  turn-out  all  that  time  ago:  horses, 
men,  carriage — all  different  now,  no  doubt — but  of  the 
precise  stamp  of  fifteen  years  before;  the  same  neat 
display,  the  same  nicely  calculated  arrogance — ease  with 
security!  The  swing  exact,  the  pose  of  the  sunshades 
exact,  exact  the  spirit  of  the  whole  thing. 

And  in  the  sunlight,  defended  by  the  haughty  shields 
of  parasols,  carriage  after  carriage  went  by. 

"Uncle  James  has  just  passed,  with  his  female  folk," 
said  young  Jolyon. 

His  father  looked  black,     "Did  your  uncle  see  us? 


Old  Jolyon  at  the  Zoo  199 

Yes?  Hmph!  What's  he  want,  coming  down  into 
these  parts?" 

An  empty  cab  drove  up  at  this  moment,  and  old 
Jolyon  stopped  it. 

"I  shall  see  you  again  before  long,  my  boy!  "  he  said. 
"Don't  you  go  paying  any  attention  to  what  I've  been 
saying  about  young  Bosinney — I  don't  believe  a  word  of 
it!" 

Kissing  the  children,  who  tried  to  detain  him,  he 
stepped  in  and  was  borne  away. 

Young  Jolyon,  who  had  taken  Holly  up  in  his  arms, 
stood  motionless  at  the  corner,  looking  after  the  cab. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AFTERNOON  AT  TIMOTHY'S 

IF  old  Jolyon,  as  he  got  into  his  cab,  had  said: 
"I  won't  believe  a  word  of  it!"  he  would  more 
truthfully  have  expressed  his  sentiments. 

The  notion  that  James  and  his  womankind  had  seen 
him  in  the  company  of  his  son  had  awakened  in  him  not 
only  the  impatience  he  always  felt  when  crossed,  but 
that  secret  hostility  natural  between  brothers,  the  roots 
of  which — little  nursery  rivalries — sometimes  toughen 
and  deepen  as  life  goes  on,  and,  all  hidden,  support  a 
plant  capable  of  producing  in  season  the  bitterest  fruits. 

Hitherto  there  had  been  between  these  six  brothers  no 
more  unfriendly  feeling  than  that  caused  by  the  secret 
and  natural  doubt  that  the  others  might  be  richer  than 
themselves;  a  feeling  increased  to  the  pitch  of  curiosity 
by  the  approach  of  death — that  end  of  all  handicaps — and 
the  great  "closeness"  of  their  man  of  business,  who, 
with  some  sagacity,  would  profess  to  Nicholas  ignorance 
of  James's  income,  to  James  ignorance  of  old  Jolyon's, 
to  Jolyon  ignorance  of  Roger's,  to  Roger  ignorance  of 
Swithin's,  while  to  Swithin  he  would  say  most  irritat- 
ingly  that  Nicholas  must  be  a  rich-  man.  Timothy 
alone  was  exempt,  being  in  gilt-edged  securities. 

But  now,  between  two  of  them  at  least,  had  arisen  a 
very  different  sense  of  injury.  From  the  moment  when 
James  had  the  impertinence  to  pry  into  his  affairs — as 

200 


Afternoon  at  Timothy's  201 

he  put  it — old  Jolyon  no  longer  chose  to  credit  this 
story  about  Bosinney.  His  granddaughter  slighted 
through  a  member  of  "that  fellow's"  family!  He 
made  up  his  mind  that  Bosinney  was  maligned.  There 
must  be  some  other  reason  for  his  defection. 

June  had  flown  out  at  him,  or  something;  she  was  as 
touchy  as  she  could  be! 

He  would,  however,  let  Timothy  have  a  bit  of  his 
mind,  and  see  if  he  would  go  on  dropping  hints!  And 
he  would  not  let  the  grass  grow  under  his  feet  either,  he 
would  go  there  at  once,  and  take  very  good  care  that 
he  did  n't  have  to  go  again  on  the  same  errand. 

He  saw  James's  carriage  blocking  the  pavement  in 
front  of  "The  Bower."  So  they  had  got  there  before 
him — cackling  about  having  seen  him,  he  dared  say! 
And  further  on,  Swithin's  greys  were  turning  their  noses 
towards  the  noses  of  James's  bays,  as  though  in  conclave 
over  the  family,  while  their  coachmen  were  in  conclave 
above. 

Old  Jolyon,  depositing  his  hat  on  the  chair  in  the 
narrow  hall,  where  that  hat  of  Bosinney's  had  so  long  ago 
been  mistaken  for  a  cat,  passed  his  thin  hand  grimly 
over  his  face  with  its  great  drooping  white  moustaches, 
as  though  to  remove  all  traces  of  expression,  and  made 
his  way  upstairs. 

He  found  the  front  drawing-room  full.  It  was  full 
enough  at  the  best  of  times — without  visitors — without 
any  one  in  it — for  Timothy  and  his  sisters,  following 
the  tradition  of  their  generation,  considered  that  a  room 
was  not  quite  "nice"  unless  it  was  "properly"  fur- 
nished. It  held,  therefore,  eleven  chairs,  a  sofa,  three 
tables,  two  cabinets,  innumerable  knick-knacks,  and  part 
of  a  large  grand  piano.  And  now,  occupied  by  Mrs. 
Small,  Aunt  Hester,  by  Swithin,  James,  Rachel,  Wini- 
fred, Euphemia,  who  had  come  in  again  to  return 


202  The  Man  of  Property 

Passion  and  Paregoric  which  she  had  read  at  lunch, 
and  her  chum  Frances,  Roger's  daughter  (the  musical 
Forsyte,  the  one  who  composed  songs),  there  was  only 
one  chair  left  unoccupied,  except,  of  course,  the  two  that 
nobody  ever  sat  on — and  the  only  standing  room  was 
occupied  by  the  cat,  on  whom  old  Jolyon  promptly 
stepped. 

In  these  days  it  was  by  no  means  unusual  for  Timothy 
to  have  so  many  visitors.  The  family  had  always,  one 
and  all,  had  a  real  respect  for  Aunt  Ann,  and  now  that  she 
was  gone,  they  were  coming  far  more  frequently  to  "  The 
Bower,"  and  staying  longer. 

S within  had  been  the  first  to  arrive,  and  seated  torpid 
in  a  red  satin  chair  with  a  gilt  back,  he  gave  every  ap- 
pearance of  lasting  the  others  out.  And  symbolising 
Bosinney's  name  "the  big  one,"  with  his  great  stature 
and  bulk,  his  thick  white  hair,  his  puffy  immovable 
shaven  face,  he  looked  more  primeval  than  ever  in  the 
highly  upholstered  room. 

His  conversation,  as  usual  of  late,  had  turned  at  once 
upon  Irene,  and  he  had  lost  no  time  in  giving  Aunts 
Juley  and  Hester  his  opinion  with  regard  to  this  rumour 
he  heard  was  going  about.  No — as  he  said — she  might 
want  a  bit  of  flirtation — a  pretty  woman  must  have  her 
fling;  but  more  than  that  he  did  not  believe.  Nothing 
open;  she  had  too  much  good  sense,  too  much  proper 
appreciation  of  what  was  due  to  her  position,  and  to  the 

family!  No  sc he  was  going  to  say  "scandal "but 

the  very  idea  was  so  preposterous  that  he  waved  his  hand 
as  though  to  say — ' '  but  let  that  pass ! ' ' 

Granted  that  Swithin  took  a  bachelor's  view  of  the 
situation — still  what  indeed  was  not  due  to  that  family 
in  which  so  many  had  done  so  well  for  themselves,  had 
attained  a  certain  position?  If  he  had  heard  in  dark, 
pessimistic  moments  the  words  "yeomen"  and  "very 


Afternoon  at  Timothy's  203 

small  beer"  used  in  connection  with  his  origin,  did  he 
believe  them? 

No!  he  cherished,  hugging  it  pathetically  to  his  bosom, 
the  secret  theory  that  there  was  something  distinguished 
somewhere  in  his  ancestry. 

"  Must  be,"  he  once  said  to  young  Jolyon,  before  the 
latter  went  to  the  bad.  "Look  at  us,  we've  got  on! 
There  must  be  good  blood  in  us  somewhere. " 

He  had  been  fond  of  young  Jolyon:  the  boy  had  been 
in  a  good  set  at  College,  had  known  that  old  ruffian 
Sir  Charles  Piste's  sons — a  pretty  rascal  one  of  them  had 
turned  out,  too;  and  there  was  style  about  him— it  was  a 
thousand  pities  he  had  run  off  with  that  foreign  girl — a 
governess,  too!  If  he  must  go  off  like  that  why  could  n't 
he  have  chosen  some  one  who  would  have  done  them 
credit!  And  what  was  he  now? — an  underwriter  at 
Lloyd's;  they  said  he  even  painted  pictures — pictures! 
Damme!  he  might  have  ended  as  Sir  Jolyon  Forsyte, 
Bart.,  with  a  seat  in  Parliament,  and  a  place  in  the 
country! 

It  was  S within  who,  following  the  impulse  which 
sooner  or  later  urges  thereto  some  member  of  every 
great  family,  went  to  the  Heralds'  Office,  where  they 
assured  him  that  he  was  undoubtedly  of  the  same 
family  as  the  well-known  Forsites  with  an  "i,"  whose 
arms  were  "three  dexter  buckles  on  a  sable  ground  gules," 
hoping  no  doubt  to  get  him  to  take  them  up. 

Swithin,  however,  did  not  do  this,  but  having  ascer- 
tained that  the  crest  was  a  "pheasant  proper,"  and  the 
motto  "For  Forsite, "  he  had  the  pheasant  proper  placed 
upon  his  carriage  and  the  buttons  of  his  coachman,  and 
both  crest  and  motto  on  his  writing-paper.  The  arms 
he  hugged  to  himself,  partly  because,  not  having  paid  for 
them,  he  thought  it  would  look  ostentatious  to  put  them 
on  his  carriage,  and  he  hated  ostentation,  and  partly 


204  The  Man  of  Property 

because  he,  like  any  practical  man  all  over  the  country, 
had  a  secret  dislike  and  contempt  for  things  he  could 
not  understand — he  found  it  hard,  as  any  one  might, 
to  swallow  "  three  dexter  buckles  on  a  sable  ground 
gules." 

He  never  forgot,  however,  their  having  told  him  that 
if  he  paid  for  them  he  would  be  entitled  to  use  them,  and 
it  strengthened  his  conviction  that  he  was  a  gentleman. 
Imperceptibly  the  rest  of  the  family  absorbed  the 
"  pheasant  proper,"  and  some,  more  serious  than  others, 
adopted  the  motto;  old  Jolyon,  however,  refused  to  use 
the  latter,  saying  that  it  was  humbug — meaning  nothing, 
so  far  as  he  could  see. 

Among  the  older  generation  it  was  perhaps  known  at 
bottom  from  what  great  historical  event  they  derived 
their  crest ;  and  if  pressed  on  the  subject,  sooner  than  tell 
a  lie — they  did  not  like  telling  lies,  having  an  impression 
that  only  Frenchmen  and  Russians  told  them — they 
would  confess  hurriedly  that  Swithin  had  got  hold  of  it 
somehow. 

Among  the  younger  generation  the  matter  was  wrapped 
in  a  discretion  proper.  They  did  not  want  to  hurt  the 
feelings  of  their  elders,  nor  to  feel  ridiculous  themselves; 
they  simply  used  the  crest. 

"No,"  said  Swithin,  he  had  had  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  for  himself,  and  what  he  should  say  was,  that  there 
was  nothing  in  her  manner  to  that  young  Buccaneer  or 
Bosinney  or  whatever  his  name  was,  different  from  her 
manner  to  himself;  in  fact,  he  should  rather  say — • 
But  here  the  entrance  of  Frances  and  Euphemia  put  an 
unfortunate  stop  to  the  conversation,  for  this  was  not  a 
subject  which  could  be  discussed  before  young  people. 

And  though  Swithin  was  somewhat  upset  at  being 
stopped  like  this  on  the  point  of  saying  something 
important,  he  soon  recovered  his  affability.  He  was 


Afternoon  at  Timothy's  205 

rather  fond  of  Frances — Francie,  as  she  was  called  in  the 
family.  She  was  so  smart,  and  they  told  him  she  made 
a  pretty  little  pot  of  pin-money  by  her  songs;  he  called  it 
very  clever  of  her. 

He  rather  prided  himself  indeed  on  a  liberal  atti- 
tude towards  women,  not  seeing  any  reason  why  they 
should  n't  paint  pictures,  or  write  tunes,  or  books  even, 
for  the  matter  of  that,  especially  if  they  could  turn 
a  useful  penny  by  it;  not  at  all — kept  them  out  of 
mischief.  It  was  not  as  if  they  were  men! 

"Little  Francie, "  as  she  was  usually  called  with  good- 
natured  contempt,  was  an  important  personage,  if  only  as 
a  standing  illustration  of  the  attitude  of  Forsytes  towards 
the  Arts.  She  was  not  really  "little,"  but  rather  tall, 
with  dark  hair  for  a  Forsyte,  which,  together  with  a 
grey  eye,  gave  her  what  was  called  "a  Celtic  appearance." 
She  wrote  songs  with  titles  like  Breathing  Sighs,  or 
Kiss  me,  Mother,  ere  I  Die,  with  a  refrain  like  an 
anthem: 

Kiss  me,  Mother,  ere  I  die ; 

Kiss  me — kiss  me,  Mother,  ah! 

Kiss,  ah !  kiss  me-e— ere  I — 

Kiss  me,  Mother,  ere  I  d-d-die! 

She  wrote  the  words  to  them  herself,  and  other  poems. 
In  lighter  moments  she  wrote  waltzes,  one  of  which,  the 
Kensington  Coil,  was  almost  national  to  Kensington, 
having  a  sweet  dip  in  it.  Thus : 


ii 


It  was  very  original.  Then  there  were  her  Songs  for 
Little  People,  at  once  educational  and  witty,  especially 
Gran'ma's  Porgie,  and  that  ditty,  almost  prophetically 


206  The  Man  of  Property 

imbued  with  the  coming  Imperial  spirit,  entitled  Black 
him  in  his  Little  Eye. 

Any  publisher  would  take  these,  and  reviews  like 
High  Living,  and  the  Ladies'  Genteel  Guide  went 
into  raptures  over:  "Another  of  Miss  Francie  Forsyte's 
spirited  ditties,  sparkling  and  pathetic.  We  ourselves 
were  moved  to  tears  and  laughter.  Miss  Forsyte  should 
go  far." 

With  the  true  instinct  of  her  breed,  Francie  had  made 
a  point  of  knowing  the  right  people — people  who  would 
write  about  her,  and  talk  about  her,  and  people  in  Society, 
too — keeping  a  mental  register  of  just  where  to  exert  her 
fascinations,  and  an  eye  on  that  steady  scale  of  rising 
prices,  which  in  her  mind's  eye  represented  the  future. 
In  this  way  she  caused  herself  to  be  universally  respected. 

Once,  at  a  time  when  her  emotions  were  whipped  by 
an  attachment — for  the  tenor  of  Roger's  life,  with  its 
whole-hearted  collection  of  house  property,  had  induced 
in  his  eldest  daughter  a  tendency  towards  passion — she 
turned  to  great  and  sincere  work,  choosing  the  sonata 
form  for  the  violin.  This  was  the  only  one  of  her  pro- 
ductions that  troubled  the  Forsytes.  They  felt  at  once 
that  it  would  not  sell. 

Roger,  who  liked  having  a  clever  daughter  well  enough, 
and  often  alluded  to  the  amount  of  pocket-money  she 
made  for  herself,  was  upset  by  this  violin  sonata. 

"Rubbish  like  that!"  he  called  it.  Francie  had 
borrowed  young  Flageoletti  from  Euphemia,  to  play  it 
in  the  drawing-room  at  Prince's  Gardens. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Roger  was  right.  It  was  rubbish, 
but — annoying!  the  sort  of  rubbish  that  wouldn't  sell. 
As  every  Forsyte  knows,  rubbish  that  sells  is  not  rubbish 
at  all — far  from  it. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  sound  common  sense  that  fixed 
the  worth  of  art  at  what  it  would  fetch,  some  of  the 


Afternoon  at  Timothy's  207 

Forsytes — Aunt  Hester,  for  instance,  who  had  always 
been  musical — could  not  help  regretting  that  Francie's 
music  was  not  "classical";  the  same  with  her  poems. 
But  then,  as  Aunt  Hester  said,  they  did  n't  see  any 
poetry  nowadays,  all  the  poems  were  "little  light  things." 
There  was  nobody  who  could  write  a  poem  like  Paradise 
Lost,  or  Childe  Harold;  either  of  which  made  you 
feel  that  you  really  had  read  something.  Still,  it  was 
nice  for  Francie  to  have  something  to  occupy  her;  whil 
other  girls  were  spending  money  shopping  she  was 
making  it !  And  both  Aunt  Hester  and  Aunt  Juley  were 
always  ready  to  listen  to  the  latest  story  of  how  Francie 
had  got  her  price  increased. 

They  listened  now,  together  with  Swithin,  who  sat  pre- 
tending not  to,  for  these  young  people  talked  so  fast  and 
mumbled  so,  he  never  could  catch  what  they  said! 

"And  I  can't  think,"  said  Mrs.  Septimus,  "how  you 
do  it.  I  should  never  have  the  audacity! " 

Francie  smiled  lightly.  "  I  'd  much  rather  deal  with  a 
man  than  a  woman.  Women  are  so  sharp! " 

"My  dear,"  cried  Mrs.  Small,  "I 'm  sure  we're  not." 

Euphemia  went  off  into  her  silent  laugh,  and,  ending 
with  the  squeak,  said,  as  though  being  strangled:  "Oh, 
you'll  kill  me  some  day,  auntie." 

Swithin  saw  no  necessity  to  laugh ;  he  detested  people 
laughing  when  he  himself  perceived  no  joke.  Indeed,  he 
detested  Euphemia  altogether,  to  whom  he  always  al- 
luded as  "Nick's  daughter,  what's  she  called — the  pale 
one  ? "  He  had  just  missed  being  her  godfather — indeed, 
would  have  been,  had  he  not  taken  a  firm  stand  against 
her  outlandish  name.  He  hated  becoming  a  godfather. 
Swithin  then  said  to  Francie  with  dignity:  "It's  a  fine 
day — er — for  the  time  of  year."  But  Euphemia,  who 
knew  perfectly  well  that  he  had  refused  to  be  her 
godfather  turned  to  Aunt  Hester ,  and  began  telling  her 


2o8  The  Man  of  Property 

how  she  had  seen  Irene — Mrs.  Soames — at  the  Church 
and  Commercial  Stores. 

"And  Soames  was  with  her?"  said  Aunt  Hester,  to 
whom  Mrs.  Small  had  as  yet  had  no  opportunity  of 
relating  the  incident. 

"Soames  with  her?     Of  course  not!" 

"But  was  she  all  alone  in  London?" 

"Oh,  no;  there  was  Mr.  Bosinney  with  her.  She  was 
perfectly  dressed." 

But  Swithin,  hearing  the  name  Irene,  looked  severely  at 
Euphemia,  who,  it  is  true,  never  did  look  well  in  a  dress, 
whatever  she  may  have  done  on  other  occasions,  and 
said: 

"  Dressed  like  a  lady,  I  've  no  doubt.  It 's  a  pleasure 
to  see  her." 

At  this  moment  James  and  his  daughters  were  an- 
nounced. Dartie,  feeling  badly  in  want  of  a  drink,  had 
pleaded  an  appointment  with  his  dentist,  and,  being  put 
down  at  Marble  Arch,  had  got  into  a  hansom,  and  was 
already  seated  in  the  window  of  his  Club  in  Piccadilly. 

His  wife,  he  told  his  cronies,  had  wanted  to  take  him 
to  pay  some  calls.  It  was  not  in  his  line — not  exactly. 
Haw! 

Hailing  the  waiter,  he  sent  him  out  to  the  hall  to  see 
what  had  won  the  4.30  race.  He  was  dog-tired,  he  said, 
and  that  was  a  fact ;  had  been  drivin'  about  with  his  wife 
to  "shows"  all  the  afternoon.  Had  put  his  foot  down 
at  last.  A  fellow  must  live  his  own  life. 

At  this  moment,  glancing  out  of  the  bay-window — for 
he  loved  this  seat  whence  he  could  see  everybody  pass 
— his  eye  unfortunately,  or  perhaps  fortunately,  chanced 
to  light  on  the  figure  of  Soames,  who  was  mousing  across 
the  road  from  the  Green  Park  side,  with  the  evident 
intention  of  coming  in,  for  he,  too,  belonged  to  "The 
Iseeum. " 


Afternoon  at  Timothy's  209 

Dartie  sprang  to  his  feet;  grasping  his  glass,  he  mut- 
tered something  about  "that  4.30  race,"  and  swiftly 
withdrew  to  the  card-room,  where  Soames  never  came. 
Here,  in  complete  isolation  and  a  dim  light,  he  lived  his 
own  life  till  half-past  seven,  by  which  hour  he  knew 
Soames  must  certainly  have  left  the  Club. 

It  would  not  do,  as  he  kept  repeating  to  himself  when- 
ever he  felt  the  impulse  to  join  the  gossips  in  the  bay- 
window  getting  too  strong  for  him — it  absolutely  would 
not  do,  with  finances  as  low  as  his,  and  the  "old  man" 
(James)  rusty  ever  since  that  business  over  the  oil 
shares,  which  was  no  fault  of  his,  to  risk  a  row  with 
Winifred. 

If  Soames  were  to  see  him  in  the  Club  it  would  be  sure 
to  come  round  to  her  that  he  was  n't  at  the  dentist's  at 
all.  He  never  knew  a  family  where  things  "came 
round"  so.  Uneasily,  amongst  the  green  baize  card- 
tables,  a  frown  on  his  olive-coloured  face,  his  check 
trousers  crossed,  and  patent-leather  boots  shining  through 
the  gloom,  he  sat  biting  his  forefinger,  and  wondering 
where  the  deuce  he  was  to  get  the  money  if  Erotic  failed 
to  win  the  Lancashire  Cup. 

His  thoughts  turned  gloomily  to  the  Forsytes.  What 
a  set  they  were !  There  was  no  getting  anything  out  of 
them — at  least,  it  was  a  matter  of  extreme  difficulty. 

They  were  so  d d  particular  about  money  matters; 

not  a  sportsman  amongst  the  lot,  unless  it  were  George. 
That  fellow  Soames,  for  instance,  would  have  a  fit  if  you 
tried  to  borrow  a  tenner  from  him,  or,  if  he  did  n't  have 
a  fit,  he  looked  at  you  with  his  cursed  supercilious 
smile,  as  if  you  were  a  lost  soul  because  you  were  in 
want  of  money. 

And  that  wife  of  his  (Dartie's  mouth  watered  involun- 
tarily) ,  he  had  tried  to  be  on  good  terms  with  her,  as  one 
naturally  would  with  any  pretty  sister-in-law,  but  he 
14 


210  The  Man  of  Property 

would  be  cursed  if  the — (he  mentally  used  a  coarse  word) 
— would  have  anything  to  say  to  him — she  looked  at 
him,  indeed,  as  if  he  were  dirt — and  yet  she  could  go  far 
enough,  he  wouldn't  mind  betting.  He  knew  women; 
they  were  n't  made  with  soft  eyes  and  figures  like  that 
for  nothing,  as  that  fellow  Soames  would  jolly  soon  find 
out,  if  there  were  anything  in  what  he  had  heard  about 
this  Buccaneer  Johnny. 

Rising  from  his  chair,  Dartie  took  a  turn  across  the 
room,  ending  in  front  of  the  looking-glass  over  the  marble 
chimney-piece;  and  there  he  stood  for  a  long  time  con- 
templating in  the  glass  the  reflection  of  his  face.  It  had 
that  look,  peculiar  to  some  men,  of  having  been  steeped 
in  linseed  oil,  with  its  waxed  dark  moustaches  and  the 
little  distinguished  commencements  of  side  whiskers; 
and  concernedly  he  felt  the  promise  of  a  pimple  on  the 
side  of  his  slightly  curved  and  fattish  nose. 

In  the  meantime  old  Jolyon  had  found  the  remaining 
chair  in  Timothy's  commodious  drawing-room.  His 
advent  had  obviously  put  a  stop  to  the  conversation, 
decided  awkwardness  having  set  in.  Aunt  Juley,  with 
her  well-known  kind-heartedness,  hastened  to  set  people 
at  their  ease  again. 

"Yes,  Jolyon,"  she  said,  "we  were  just  saying  that 
you  haven't  been  here  for  a  long  time;  but  we  must  n't 
be  surprised  You're  busy,  of  course?  James  was 
just  saying  what  a  busy  time  of  year " 

"Was  he?"  said  old  Jolyon,  looking  hard  at  James. 
"It  would  n't  be  half  so  busy  if  everybody  minded  their 
own  business." 

James,  brooding  in  a  small  chair  from  which  his  knees 
ran  uphill,  shifted  his  feet  uneasily,  and  put  one  of  them 
down  on  the  cat,  which  had  unwisely  taken  refuge  from 
old  Jolyon  beside  him. 

"Here,  you've  got  a  cat  here,"  he  said  in  an  injured 


Afternoon  at  Timothy's  211 

voice,  withdrawing  his  foot  nervously  as  he  felt  it 
squeezing  into  the  soft,  furry  body. 

"Several,"  said  old  Jolyon,  looking  at  one  face  and 
another;  "I  trod  on  one  just  now." 

A  silence  followed. 

Then  Mrs.  Small,  twisting  her  fingers  and  gazing  round 
with  pathetic  calm,  asked:  "And  how  is  dear  June?" 

A  twinkle  of  humour  shot  through  the  sternness  of  old 
Jolyon's  eyes.  Extraordinary  old  woman,  Juley!  No 
one  quite  like  her  for  saying  the  wrong  thing! 

"Bad!"  he  said;  "London  don't  agree  with  her — too 
many  people  about,  too  much  clatter  and  chatter  by 
half."  He  laid  emphasis  on  the  words,  and  again  looked 
James  in  the  face. 

Nobody  spoke. 

A  feeling  of  its  being  too  dangerous  to  take  a  step  in 
any  direction,  or  hazard  any  remark,  had  fallen  on  them 
all.  Something  of  the  sense  of  the  impending,  that 
comes  over  the  spectator  of  a  Greek  tragedy,  had  entered 
that  upholstered  room,  filled  with  those  white-haired, 
frock-coated  old  men,  and  fashionably  attired  women, 
who  were  all  of  the  same  blood,  between  all  of  whom 
existed  an  unseizable  resemblance. 

Not  that  they  were  conscious  of  it — the  visits  of  such 
fateful,  bitter  spirits  are  only  felt. 

Then  Swithin  rose.  He  would  not  sit  there,  feeling 
like  that — he  was  not  to  be  put  down  by  any  one!  And, 
manoeuvring  round  the  room  with  added  pomp,  he 
shook  hands  with  each  separately. 

"You  tell  Timothy  from  me,"  he  said,  "that  he 
coddles  himself  too  much!"  Then,  turning  to  Francie, 
whom  he  considered  "smart,"  he  added:  "You  come 
with  me  for  a  drive  one  of  these  days."  But  this  con- 
jured up  the  vision  of  that  other  eventful  drive  which 
had  been  so  much  talked  about,  and  he  stood  quite 


2 1 2  The  Man  of  Property 

still  for  a  second,  with  glassy  eyes,  as  though  waiting 
to  catch  up  with  the  significance  of  what  he  himself  had 
said;  then,  suddenly  recollecting  that  he  did  n't  care  a 
damn,  he  turned  to  old  Jolyon:  "Well,  good-bye, 
Jolyon!  You  shouldn't  go  about  without  an  overcoat; 
you'll  be  getting  sciatica  or  something!"  And,  kicking 
the  cat  slightly  with  the  pointed  tip  of  his  patent- 
leather  boot,  he  took  his  huge  form  away. 

When  he  had  gone  every  one  looked  secretly  at  the 
others,  to  see  how  they  had  taken  the  mention  of  the 
word  "drive" — the  word  which  had  become  famous, 
and  acquired  an  overwhelming  importance,  as  the  only 
official — so  to  speak — news  in  connection  with  the 
vague  and  sinister  rumour  clinging  to  the  family  tongue. 

Euphemia,  yielding  to  an  impulse,  said  with  a  short 
laugh:  "I'm  glad  Uncle  Swithin  does  n't  ask  me  to  go 
for  drives." 

Mrs.  Small,  to  reassure  her  and  smooth  over  any  little 
awkwardness  the  subject  might  have,  replied:  "My 
dear,  he  likes  to  take  somebody  well  dressed,  who  will 
do  him  a  little  credit.  I  shall  never  forget  the  drive  he 
took  me.  It  was  an  experience!"  And  her  chubby 
round  old  face  was  spread  for  a  moment  with  a  strange 
contentment;  then  broke  into  pouts,  and  tears  came  into 
her  eyes.  She  was  thinking  of  that  long-ago  driving 
tour  she  had  once  taken  with  Septimus  Small. 

James,  who  had  relapsed  into  his  nervous  brooding 
in  the  little  chair,  suddenly  roused  himself:  "He's  a 
funny  fellow,  Swithin,"  he  said,  but  in  a  half-hearted 
way. 

Old  Jolyon's  silence,  his  stern  eyes,  held  them  all  in  a 
kind  of  paralysis.  He  was  disconcerted  himself  by  the 
effect  of  his  own  words — an  effect  which  seemed  to 
deepen  the  importance  of  the  very  rumour  he  had  come 
to  scotch;  but  he  was  still  angry. 


Afternoon  at  Timothy's  213 

He  had  not  done  with  them  yet — no,  no — he  would 
give  them  another  rub  or  two! 

He  did  not  wish  to  rub  his  nieces,  he  had  no  quarrel 
with  them — a  young  and  presentable  female  always 
appealed  to  old  Jolyon's  clemency — but  that  fellow 
James,  and,  in  a  less  degree  perhaps,  those  others,  de- 
served all  they  would  get.  And  he,  too,  asked  for 
Timothy. 

As  though  feeling  that  some  danger  threatened  her 
younger  brother,  Aunt  Juley  suddenly  offered  him  tea: 
" There  it  is,"  she  said,  "all  cold  and  nasty,  waiting 
for  you  in  the  back  drawing-room,  but  Smither  shall 
make  you  some  fresh." 

Old  Jolyon  rose:  "Thank  you,"  he  said,  looking 
straight  at  James,  "but  I've  no  time  for  tea,  and 
— scandal,  and  the  rest  of  it!  It's  time  I  was  at 
home.  Good-bye,  Juley;  good-bye,  Hester;  good-bye, 
Winifred." 

Without  more  ceremonious  adieux,  he  marched  out. 

Once  again  in  his  cab,  his  anger  evaporated,  for  so  it 
ever  was  with  his  wrath — when  he  had  rapped  out, 
it  was  gone.  Sadness  came  over  his  spirit.  He  had 
stopped  their  mouths,  maybe,  but  at  what  a  cost!  At 
the  cost  of  certain  knowledge  that  the  rumour  he  had 
been  resolved  not  to  believe  was  true.  June  was  aban- 
doned, and  for  the  wife  of  that  fellow's  son!  He  felt 
it  was  true,  and  hardened  himself  to  treat  it  as  if  it 
were  not;  but  the  pain  he  hid  beneath  this  resolution 
began  slowly,  surely,  to  vent  itself  in  a  blind  resentment 
against  James  and  his  son. 

The  six  women  and  one  man  left  behind  in  the  little 
drawing-room  began  talking  as  easily  as  might  be  after 
such  an  occurrence,  for  though  each  one  of  them  knew 
for  a  fact  that  he  or  she  never  talked  scandal,  each  one 
of  them  also  knew  that  the  other  six  did;  all  were 


214  The  Man  of  Property 

therefore  angry  and  at  a  loss.  James  only  was  silent, 
disturbed  to  the  bottom  of  his  soul. 

Presently  Francie  said:  "Do  you  know,  I  think  Uncle 
Jolyon  is  terribly  changed  this  last  year.  What  do 
you  think,  Aunt  Hester?" 

Aunt  Hester  made  a  little  movement  of  recoil:  "Oh, 
ask  your  Aunt  Juley!"  she  said;  "  I  know  nothing  about 
it." 

No  one  else  was  afraid  of  assenting,  and  James  mut- 
tered gloomily  at  the  floor:  "  He  's  not  half  the  man 
he  was." 

" I 've  noticed  it  a  long  time, "  went  on  Francie;  "he 's 
aged  tremendously." 

Aunt  Juley  shook  her  head ;  her  face  seemed  suddenly 
to  have  become  one  immense  pout. 

"Poor  dear  Jolyon,"  she  said,  "somebody  ought  to 
see  to  it  for  him !" 

There  was  again  silence;  then,  as  though  in  terror  of 
being  left  solitarily  behind,  all  five  visitors  rose  simul- 
taneously, and  took  their  departure. 

Mrs.  Small,  Aunt  Hester,  and  their  cat  were  left  once 
more  alone,  the  sound  of  a  door  closing  in  the  distance 
announced  the  approach  of  Timothy. 

That  evening,  when  Aunt  Hester  had  just  got  off  to 
sleep  in  the  back  bedroom  that  used  to  be  Aunt  Juley 's 
before  Aunt  Juley  took  Aunt  Ann's,  her  door  was 
opened,  and  Mrs.  Small,  in  a  pink  night-cap,  a  candle  in 
her  hand,  entered:  "Hester!"  she  said.  "Hester!" 

Aunt  Hester  faintly  rustled  the  sheet. 

"Hester,"  repeated  Aunt  Juley,  to  make  quite  sure 
that  she  had  awakened  her,  ' '  I  am  quite  troubled  about 
poor  dear  old  Jolyon.  What, "  Aunt  Juley  dwelt  on  the 
word,  "do  you  think  ought  to  be  done?" 

Aunt  Hester  again  rustled  the  sheet,  her  voice  was 
heard  faintly  pleading:  "Done?  How  should  I  know?" 


Afternoon  at  Timothy's  215 

Aunt  Juley  turned  away  satisfied,  and  closing  the  door 
with  extra  gentleness  so  as  not  to  disturb  Hester,  let  it 
slip  through  her  fingers  and  fall  to  with  a  "crack." 

Back  in  her  own  room,  she  stood  at  the  window  gazing 
at  the  moon  over  the  trees  in  the  Park,  through  a  chink 
in  the  muslin  curtains,  close  drawn  lest  any  one  should 
see.  And  there,  with  her  face  all  round  and  pouting  in 
its  pink  cap,  and  her  eyes  wet,  she  thought  of  "dear  Jol- 
yon, "  so  old  and  so  lonely,  and  how  she  could  be  of  some 
use  to  him ;  and  how  he  would  come  to  love  her,  as 
she  had  never  been  loved  since — since  poor  Septimus 
went  away. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
DANCE    AT    ROGER'S 

ROGER'S  house  in  Prince's  Gardens  was  brilliantly 
alight.  Large  numbers  of  wax  candles  had  been 
collected  and  placed  in  cut-glass  chandeliers,  and 
the  parquet  floor  of  the  long,  double  drawing-room 
reflected  these  constellations.  An  appearance  of  real 
spaciousness  had  been  secured  by  moving  out  all  the  fur- 
niture on  to  the  upper  landings,  and  enclosing  the  room 
with  those  strange  appendages  of  civilisation  known  as 
"rout"  seats. 

In  a  remote  corner,  embowered  in  palms,  was  a  cottage 
piano,  with  a  copy  of  the  Kensington  Coil  open  on 
the  music-stand. 

Roger  had  objected  to  a  band.  He  did  n't  see  in  the 
least  what  they  wanted  with  a  band;  he  would  n't  go  to 
the  expense,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it.  Francie  (her 
mother,  whom  Roger  had  long  since  reduced  to  chronic 
dyspepsia,  went  to  bed  on  such  occasions)  had  been 
obliged  to  content  herself  with  supplementing  the  piano 
by  a  young  man  who  played  the  cornet,  and  she  so 
arranged  the  palms  that  any  one  who  did  not  look  into 
the  heart  of  things  might  imagine  there  were  several 
musicians  secreted  there.  She  made  up  her  mind  to  tell 
him  to  play  loud — there  was  a  lot  of  music  in  a  cornet 
if  the  man  would  only  put  his  soul  into  it. 

In  the  more  cultivated  American  tongue,  she  was 
"through"  at  last — through  that  tortuous  labyrinth 

216 


Dance  at  Roger's  217 

of  make-shifts,  which  must  be  traversed  before 
fashionable  display  can  be  combined  with  the  sound 
economy  of  a  Forsyte.  Thin  but  brilliant,  in  her  maize- 
coloured  frock  with  much  tulle  about  the  shoulders,  she 
went  from  place  to  place,  fitting  on  her  gloves,  and 
casting  her  eye  over  it  all. 

To  the  hired  butler  (for  Roger  only  kept  maids)  she 
spoke  about  the  wine.  Did  he  quite  understand  that 
Mr.  Forsyte  wished  a  dozen  bottles  of  the  champagne 
from  Whiteley's  to  be  put  out?  But  if  that  were  fin- 
ished (she  did  not  suppose  it  would  be,  most  of  the  ladies 
would  drink  water,  no  doubt),  but  if  it  were,  there  was 
the  champagne  cup,  and  he  must  do  the  best  he  could 
with  that. 

She  hated  having  to  say  this  sort  of  thing  to  a  butler, 
it  was  so  infra  dig.;  but  what  could  you  do  with  father? 
Roger,  indeed,  after  making  himself  consistently  dis- 
agreeable about  the  dance,  would  come  down  presently, 
with  his  fresh  colour  and  bumpy  forehead,  as  though 
he  had  been  its  promoter;  and  he  would  smile,  and 
probably  take  the  prettiest  woman  in  to  supper;  and  at 
two  o'clock,  just  as  they  were  getting  into  the  swing, 
he  would  go  up  secretly  to  the  musicians  and  tell  them 
to  play  God  Save  the  Queen,  and  go  away. 

Francie  devoutly  hoped  he  might  soon  get  tired,  and 
slip  off  to  bed. 

The  three  or  four  devoted  girl  friends  who  were  staying 
in  the  house  for  this  dance  had  partaken  with  her,  in  a 
small,  abandoned  room  upstairs,  of  tea  and  cold  chicken- 
legs,  hurriedly  served;  the  men  had  been  sent  out  to 
dine  at  Eustace's  Club,  it  being  felt  that  they  must  be 
fed  up. 

Punctually  on  the  stroke  of  nine  arrived  Mrs.  Small 
alone.  She  made  elaborate  apologies  for  the  absence  of 
Timothy,  omitting  all  mention  of  Aunt  Hester,  who,  at 


2i8  The  Man  of  Property 

the  last  minute,  had  said  she  could  not  be  bothered. 
Francie  received  her  effusively,  and  placed  her  on  a  rout 
seat,  where  she  left  her,  pouting  and  solitary  in  lavender- 
coloured  satin — the  first  time  she  had  worn  colour  since 
Aunt  Ann's  death. 

The  devoted  maiden  friends  came  now  from  their 
rooms,  each  by  magic  arrangement  in  a  differently 
coloured  frock,  but  all  with  the  same  liberal  allowance  of 
tulle  on  the  shoulders  and  at  the  bosom — for  they  were, 
by  some  fatality,  lean  to  a  girl.  They  were  all  taken  up 
to  Mrs.  Small.  None  stayed  with  her  more  than  a  few 
seconds,  but  clustering  together,  talked  and  twisted 
their  programmes,  looking  secretly  at  the  door  for  the 
first  appearance  of  a  man. 

Then  arrived  in  a  group  a  number  of  Nicholases, 
always  punctual — the  fashion  up  Ladbroke  Grove  way, 
and  close  behind  them  Eustace  and  his  men,  gloomy  and 
smelling  rather  of  smoke. 

Three  or  four  of  Francie's  lovers  now  appeared,  one 
after  the  other;  she  had  made  each  promise  to  come 
early.  They  were  all  clean-shaven  and  sprightly,  with 
that  peculiar  kind  of  young-man  sprightliness  which  had 
recently  invaded  Kensington;  they  did  not  seem  to 
mind  each  other's  presence  in  the  least,  and  wore  their 
ties  bunching  out  at  the  ends,  white  waistcoats,  and  socks 
with  clocks.  All  had  handkerchiefs  concealed  in  their  cuffs. 
They  moved  buoyantly,  each  armoured  in  professional 
gaiety,  as  though  he  had  come  to  do  great  deeds.  Their 
faces  when  they  danced,  far  from  wearing  the  traditional 
solemn  look  of  the  dancing  Englishman,  were  irresponsi- 
ble, charming,  suave  f they  bounded,  twirling  their  part- 
ners at  great  pace,  without  pedantic  attention  to  the 
rhythm  of  the  music. 

At  other  dancers  they  looked  with  a  kind  of  airy 
scorn— they,  the  light  br-ade,  the  heroes  of  a  hundred 


Dance  at  Roger's  219 

Kensington  "hops" — from  whom  alone  could  the  right 
manner  and  smile  and  step  be  hoped. 

After  this  the  stream  came  fast ;  chaperones  sitting  up 
along  the  wall  facing  the  entrance,  the  volatile  element 
swelling  the  eddy  in  the  larger  room. 

Men  were  scarce,  and  wallflowers  wore  their  peculiar, 
pathetic  expression,  a  patient,  sourish  smile  which 
seemed  to  say:  "Oh,  no!  don't  mistake  me,  /  know 
you  are  not  coming  up  to  me.  I  can  hardly  expect  that ! ' ' 
And  Francie  would  plead  with  one  of  her  lovers,  or  with 
some  callow  youth:  "Now,  to  please  me,  do  let  me 
introduce  you  to  Miss  Pink;  such  a  nice  girl,  really!" 
and  she  would  bring  him  up,  and  say:  "Miss  Pink — Mr. 
Gathercole.  Can  you  spare  him  a  dance?"  Then  Miss 
Pink,  smiling  her  forced  smile,  colouring  a  little,  answered : 
"Oh!  I  think  so! "  and  screening  her  empty  card,  wrote 
on  it  the  name  of  Gathercole,  spelling  it  passionately 
in  the  district  that  he  proposed,  about  the  second  extra. 

But  when  the  youth  had  murmured  that  it  was  hot, 
and  passed,  she  relapsed  into  her  attitude  of  hopeless 
expectation,  into  her  patient,  sourish  smile. 

Mothers,  slowly  fanning  their  faces,  watched  their 
daughters,  and  in  their  eyes  could  be  read  all  the  story 
of  those  daughters'  fortunes.  As  for  themselves,  to  sit 
hour  after  hour,  dead  tired,  silent,  or  talking  spasmodi- 
cally— what  did  it  matter,  so  long  as  the  girls  were  having 
a  good  time!  But  to  see  them  neglected  and  passed  by! 
Ah!  they  smiled,  but  their  eyes  stabbed  like  the  eyes  of 
an  offended  swan;  they  longed  to  pluck  young  Gather- 
cole  by  the  slack  of  his  dandified  breeches,  and  drag  him 
to  their  daughters — the  jackanapes! 

And  all  the  cruelties  and  hardness  of  life,  its  pathos 
and  unequal  chances,  its  conceit,  self -forget  fulness,  and 
patience,  were  presented  on  the  battle-field  of  this 
Kensington  ballroom. 


220  The  Man  of  Property 

Here  and  there,  too,  lovers — not  lovers  like  Francie's, 
a  peculiar  breed,  but  simply  lovers — trembling,  blushing, 
silent,  sought  each  other  by  flying  glances,  sought  to 
meet  and  touch  in  the  mazes  of  the  dance,  and  now  and 
again  dancing  together,  struck  some  beholder  by  the 
light  in  their  eyes. 

Not  a  second  before  ten  o'clock  came  the  Jameser — 
Emily,  Rachel,  Winifred  (Dartie  had  been  left  behind, 
having  on  a  former  occasion  drunk  too  much  champagne 
at  Roger's),  and  Cicely  the  youngest,  making  her  debut; 
behind  them,  following  in  a  hansom  from  the  paternal 
mansion  where  they  had  dined,  Soames  and  Irene. 

All  these  ladies  had  shoulder-straps  and  no  tulle — 
thus  showing  at  once,  by  a  bolder  exposure  of  flesh,  that 
they  came  from  the  more  fashionable  side  of  the  Park. 

Soames,  sidling  back  from  the  contact  of  the  dancers, 
took  up  a  position  against  the  wall.  Guarding  himself 
with  his  pale  smile,  he  stood  watching.  Waltz  after 
waltz  began  and  ended,  couple  after  couple  brushed  by 
with  smiling  lips,  laughter,  and  snatches  of  talk;  or  with 
set  lips,  and  eyes  searching  the  throng;  or  again,  with 
silent  parted  lips,  and  eyes  on  each  other.  And  the 
scent  of  festivity,  the  odour  of  flowers,  and  hair,  of 
essences  that  women  love,  rose  suffocatingly  in  the  heat 
of  the  summer  night. 

Silent,  with  something  of  scorn  in  his  smile,  Soames 
seemed  to  notice  nothing;  but  now  and  again  his  eyes, 
finding  that  which  they  sought,  would  fix  themselves  on 
a  point  in  the  shifting  throng,  and  the  smile  die  off 
his  lips. 

He  danced  with  no  one.  Some  fellows  danced  with 
their  wives;  his  sense  of  "form"  had  never  permitted 
him  to  dance  with  Irene  since  their  marriage,  and  the 
God  of  the  Forsytes  alone  can  tell  whether  this  was  a 
relief  to  him  or  not. 


Dance  at  Roger's  221 

She  passed,  dancing  with  other  men,  her  dress,  iris- 
coloured,  floating  away  from  her  feet.  She  danced  well; 
he  was  tired  of  hearing  women  say  with  an  acid  smile: 
"How  beautifully  your  wife  dances,  Mr.  Forsyte — it's 
quite  a  pleasure  to  watch  her  ! "  Tired  of  answering 
them  with  his  sidelong  glance:  "You  think  so?" 

A  young  couple  close  by  flirted  a  fan  by  turns,  making 
an  unpleasant  draught.  Francie  and  one  of  her  lovers 
stood  near.  They  were  talking  of  love. 

He  heard  Roger's  voice  behind,  giving  an  order  about 
supper  to  a  servant.  Everything  was  very  second-class! 
He  wished  that  he  had  not  come!  He  had  asked  Irene 
whether  she  wanted  him;  she  had  answered  with  that 
maddening  smile  of  hers:  "Oh,  no!" 

Why  had  he  come  ?  For  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  he 
had  not  even  seen  her.  Here  was  George  advancing 
with  his  Quilpish  face;  it  was  too  late  to  get  out  of  his 
way. 

"Have  you  seen  'The  Buccaneer'?  "  said  this  licensed 
wag;  "he's  on  the  war  path — hair  cut  and  everything! " 

Soames  said  he  had  not,  and  crossing  the  room,  half- 
empty  in  an  interval  of  the  dance,  he  went  out  on  the 
balcony,  and  looked  down  into  the  street. 

A  carriage  had  driven  up  with  late  arrivals,  and  round 
the  door  hung  some  of  those  patient  watchers  of  the 
London  streets  who  spring  up  to  the  call  of  light  or  music ; 
their  faces,  pale  and  upturned  above  their  black  and 
rusty  figures,  had  an  air  of  stolid  watching  that  annoyed 
Soames.  Why  were  they  allowed  to  hang  about;  why 
did  n't  the  bobby  move  them  on  ? 

But  the  policeman  took  no  notice  of  them;  his  feet 
were  planted  apart  on  the  strip  of  crimson  carpet 
stretched  across  the  pavement ;  his  face,  under  the  helmet, 
wore  the  same  stolid,  watching  look  as  theirs. 

Across  the  road,  through  the  railings,  Soames  could  see 


222  The  Man  of  Property 

the  branches  of  trees  shining,  faintly  stirring  in  the  breeze, 
by  the  gleam  of  the  street  lamps;  beyond,  again,  the 
upper  lights  of  the  houses  on  the  other  side,  so  many 
eyes  looking  down  on  the  quiet  blackness  of  the  garden ; 
and  over  all,  the  sky,  that  wonderful  London  sky,  dusted 
with  the  innumerable  reflection  of  countless  lamps;  a 
dome  woven  over  between  its  stars  with  the  refraction  of 
human  needs  and  human  fancies — immense  mirror  of 
pomp  and  misery  that  night  after  night  stretches  its 
kindly  mocking  over  miles  of  houses  and  gardens,  man- 
sions and  squalor,  over  Forsytes,  policemen,  and  patient 
watchers  in  the  streets. 

Soames  turned  away,  and,  hidden  in  the  recess,  gazed 
into  the  lighted  room.  It  was  cooler  out  there.  He 
saw  the  new  arrivals,  June  and  her  grandfather,  enter. 
What  had  made  them  so  late  ?  They  stood  by  the  door- 
way. They  looked  fagged.  Fancy  Uncle  Jolyon  turning 
out  at  this  time  of  night!  Why  had  n't  June  come  to 
Irene,  as  she  usually  did,  and  it  occurred  to  him  suddenly 
that  he  had  seen  nothing  of  June  for  a  long  time 
now. 

Watching  her  face  with  idle  malice,  he  saw  it  change, 
grow  so  pale  that  he  thought  she  would  drop,  then  flame 
out  crimson.  Turning  to  see  at  what  she  was  looking, 
he  saw  his  wife  on  Bosinney's  arm,  coming  from  the 
conservatory  at  the  end  of  the  room.  Her  eyes  were 
raised  to  his,  as  though  answering  some  question  he  had 
asked,  and  he  was  gazing  at  her  intently. 

Soames  looked  again  at  June.  Her  hand  rested  on 
old  Jolyon's  arm;  she  seemed  to  be  making  a  request. 
He  saw  a  surprised  look  on  his  uncle's  face;  they 
turned  and  passed  through  the  door  out  of  his  sight. 

The  music  began  again — a  waltz — and,  still  as  a 
statue  in  the  recess  of  the  window,  his  face  unmoved, 
but  no  smile  on  his  lips,  Soames  waited.  Presently, 


Dance  at  Roger's  223 

within  a  yard  of  the  dark  balcony,  his  wife  and  Bosinney 
passed.  He  caught  the  perfume  of  the  gardenias  that 
she  wore,  saw  the  rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom,  the  languor 
in  her  eyes,  her  parted  lips,  and  a  look  on  her  face  that  he 
did  not  know.  To  the  slow,  swinging  measure  they 
danced  by,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  they  clung  to  each 
other;  he  saw  her  raise  her  eyes,  soft  and  dark,  to  Bosin- 
ney's  and  drop  them  again. 

Very  white,  he  turned  back  to  the  balcony,  and 
leaning  on  it,  gazed  down  on  the  Square ;  the  figures  were 
still  there  looking  up  at  the  light  with  dull  persistency, 
the  policeman's  face,  too,  upturned,  and  staring,  but  he 
saw  nothing  of  them.  Below,  a  carriage  drew  up,  two 
figures  got  in,  and  drove  away. 

That  evening  June  and  old  Jolyon  sat  down  to  dinner 
at  the  usual  hour.  The  girl  was  in  her  customary  high- 
necked  frock,  old  Jolyon  had  not  dressed. 

At  breakfast  she  had  spoken  of  the  dance  at  Uncle 
Roger's,  she  wanted  to  go;  she  had  been  stupid  enough, 
she  said,  not  to  think  of  asking  any  one  to  take  her.  It 
was  too  late  now. 

Old  Jolyon  lifted  his  keen  eyes.  June  was  used  to  going 
to  dances  with  Irene  as  a  matter  of  course !  And  deliber- 
ately fixing  his  gaze  on  her,  he  asked:  "Why  did  n't  you 
get  Irene?" 

No !  June  did  not  want  to  ask  Irene ;  she  would  only 
go  if — if  her  grandfather  would  n't  mind  just  for  once — 
for  a  little  time! 

At  her  look,  so  eager  and  so  worn,  old  Jolyon  had 
grumblingly  consented.  He  did  not  know  what  she 
wanted,  he  said,  with  going  to  a  dance  like  this,  a  poor 
affair,  he  would  wager ;  and  she  no  more  fit  for  it  than  a 
cat !  What  she  wanted  was  sea  air,  and  after  his  general 
meeting  of  the  Globular  Gold  Concessions  he  was  ready 
to  take  her.  She  did  n't  want  to  go  away?  Ah!  she 


224  The  Man  of  Property 

would  knock  herself  up!  Stealing  a  mournful  look  at 
her,  he  went  on  with  his  breakfast. 

June  went  out  early,  and  wandered  restlessly  about  in 
the  heat.  Her  little,  light  figure  that  lately  had  moved 
so  languidly  about  its  business  was  all  on  fire.  She 
bought  herself  some  flowers.  She  wanted — she  meant  to 
look  her  best.  He  would  be  there!  She  knew  well 
enough  that  he  had  a  card.  She  would  show  him  that 
she  did  not  care.  But  deep  down  in  her  heart  she  re- 
solved that  evening  to  win  him  back.  She  came  in 
flushed,  and  talked  brightly  all  lunch;  old  Jolyon  was 
there,  and  he  was  deceived. 

In  the  afternoon  she  was  overtaken  by  a  desperate  fit 
of  sobbing.  She  strangled  the  noise  against  the  pillows 
of  her  bed,  but  when  at  last  it  ceased  she  saw  in  the  glass 
a  swollen  face  with  reddened  eyes,  and  violet  circles 
round  them.  She  stayed  in  the  darkened  room  till 
dinner  time. 

All  through  that  silent  meal  the  struggle  went  on 
within  her.  She  looked  so  shadowy  and  exhausted  that 
old  Jolyon  told  "Sankey"  to  countermand  the  carriage, 
he  would  not  have  her  going  out.  She  was  to  go  to  bed! 
She  made  no  resistance.  She  went  up  to  her  room,  and 
sat  in  the  dark.  At  ten  o'clock  she  rang  for  her  maid. 

"Bring  some  hot  water,  and  go  down  and  tell  Mr. 
Forsyte  that  I  feel  perfectly  rested.  Say  that  if  he 's  too 
tired  I  can  go  to  the  dance  by  myself. " 

The  maid  looked  askance,  and  June  turned  on  her 
imperiously.  "Go,"  she  said,  "bring  the  hot  water  at 
once!" 

Her  ball-dress  still  lay  on  the  sofa,  and  with  a  sort  of 
fierce  care  she  arrayed  herself,  took  the  flowers  in  her 
hand,  and  went  down,  her  small  face  carried  high  under 
its  burden  of  hair.  She  could  hear  old  Jolyon  in  his 
room  as  she  passed. 


Dance  at  Roger's  225 

Bewildered  and  vexed,  he  was  dressing.  It  was  past 
ten,  they  would  not  get  there  till  eleven;  the  girl  was 
mad.  But  he  dared  not  cross  her — the  expression  of  her 
face  at  dinner  haunted  him. 

With  great  ebony  brushes  he  smoothed  his  hair  till 
it  shone  like  silver  under  the  light;  then  he,  too,  came 
out  on  the  gloomy  staircase. 

June  met  him  below,  and,  without  a  word,  they  went  to 
the  carriage. 

When,  after  that  drive  which  seemed  to  last  for  ever, 
she  entered  Roger's  drawing-room,  she  disguised  under  a 
mask  of  resolution  a  very  torment  of  nervousness  and 
emotion.  The  feeling  of  shame  at  what  might  be  called 
"running  after  him"  was  smothered  by  the  dread  that 
he  might  not  be  there,  that  she  might  not  see  him  after 
all,  and  by  that  dogged  resolve — somehow,  she  did  not 
know  how — to  win  him  back. 

The  sight  of  the  ballroom,  with  its  gleaming  floor, 
gave  her  a  feeling  of  joy,  of  triumph,  for  she  loved  danc- 
ing, and  when  dancing  she  floated,  so  light  was  she, 
like  a  strenuous,  eager  little  spirit.  He  would  surely 
ask  her  to  dance,  and  if  he  danced  with  her  it  would 
be  all  as  it  was  before.  She  looked  about  her 
eagerly. 

The  sight  of  Bosinney  coming  with  Irene  from  the 
conservatory,  with  that  strange  look  of  utter  absorption 
on  his  face,  struck  her  too  suddenly.  They  had  not 
seen — no  one  should  see — her  distress,  not  even  her 
grandfather. 

She  put  her  hand  on  Jolyon's  arm,  and  said  very  low: 

"  I  must  go  home,  Gran;   I  feel  ill." 

He  hurried  her  away,  grumbling  to  himself  that  he 
had  known  how  it  would  be. 

To  her  he  said  nothing;  only  when  they  were  once 
more  in  the  carriage,  which  by  some  fortunate  chance 
15 


226  The  Man  of  Property 

had  lingered  near  the  door,  he  asked  her:  "  What  is  it, 
my  darling?" 

Feeling  her  whole  slender  body  shaken  by  sobs,  he 
was  terribly  alarmed.  She  must  have  Blank  to-morrow. 
He  would  insist  upon  it.  He  could  not  have  her  like 
this.  There,  there  I 

June  mastered  her  sobs,  and,  squeezing  his  hand 
feverishly,  she  lay  back  in  her  corner,  her  face  muffled 
in  a  shawl. 

He  could  only  see  her  eyes,  fixed  and  staring  in  the 
dark,  but  he  did  not  cease  to  stroke  her  hand  with  his 
thin  fingers. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

EVENING    AT    RICHMOND 

OTHER  eyes  besides  the  eyes  of  June  and  of  Soames 
had  seen  "those  two"  (as  Euphemia  had  already 
begun  to  call  them)  coming  from  the  conservatory ;  other 
eyes  had  noticed  the  look  on  Bosinney's  face. 

There  are  moments  when  Nature  reveals  the  passion 
hidden  beneath  the  careless  calm  of  her  ordinary  moods — 
violent  spring  flashing  white  on  almond-blossom  through 
the  purple  clouds;  a  snowy,  moonlit  peak,  with  its 
single  star,  soaring  up  to  the  passionate  blue ;  or  against 
the  flames  of  sunset,  an  old  yew-tree  standing  dark 
guardian  of  some  fiery  secret. 

There  are  moments,  too,  when,  in  a  picture-gallery,  a 
work,  noted  by  the  casual  spectator  as  " — Titian — re- 
markably fine,"  breaks  through  the  defences  of  some 
Forsyte  ^better  lunched  perhaps  than  his  fellows,  and 
holds  him  spellbound  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy.  There  are 
things,  he  feels — there  are  things  here  which — well, 
which  are  things.  Something  unreasoning,  unreasonable, 
is  upon  him;  when  he  tries  to  define  it  with  the  pre- 
cision of  a  practical  man,  it  eludes  him,  slips  away,  as 
the  glow  of  the  wine  he  has  drunk  is  slipping  away, 
leaving  him  cross,  and  conscious  of  his  liver.  He  feels 
that  he  has  been  extravagant,  prodigal  of  something; 
virtue  has  gone  out  of  him.  He  did  not  desire  this 
glimpse  of  what  lay  under  the  three  stars  of  his  cata- 
logue. God  forbid  that  he  should  know  anything  about 

227 


228  The  Man  of  Property 

the  forces  of  Nature!  God  forbid  that  he  should  admit 
for  a  moment  that  there  are  such  things!  Once  admit 
that ,  and  where  was  he  ?  One  paid  a  shilling  for  entrance , 
and  another  for  the  programme. 

The  look  which  June  had  seen,  which  other  Forsytes 
had  seen,  was  like  the  sudden  flashing  of  a  candle  through 
a  hole  in  some  imaginary  canvas,  behind  which  it  was 
being  moved — the  sudden  flaming-out  of  a  vague,  er- 
ratic glow,  shadowy  and  enticing.  It  brought  home  to 
onlookers  the  consciousness  that  dangerous  forces  were 
at  work.  For  a  moment  they  noticed  it  with  pleasure, 
with  interest,  then  felt  they  must  not  notice  it  all. 

It  supplied,  however,  the  reason  of  June's  coming  so 
late  and  disappearing  again  without  dancing,  without 
even  shaking  hands  with  her  lover.  She  was  ill,  it  was 
said,  and  no  wonder. 

But  here  they  looked  at  each  other  guiltily.  They 
had  no  desire  to  spread  scandal,  no  desire  to  be  ill- 
natured.  Who 'would  have?  And  to  outsiders  no  word 
was  breathed,  unwritten  law  keeping  them  silent. 

Then  came  the  news  that  June  had  gone  to  the  seaside 
with  old  Jolyon. 

He  had  carried  her  off  to  Broadstairs,  for  which 
place  there  was  just  then  a  feeling,  Yarmouth  having  lost 
caste,  in  spite  of  Nicholas,  and  no  Forsyte  going  to  the 
sea  without  intending  to  have  an  air  for  his  money  such 
as  would  render  him  bilious  in  a  week.  That  fatally 
aristocratic  tendency  of  the  first  Forsyte  to  drink  Madeira 
had  left  his  descendants  undoubtedly  accessible. 

So  June  went  to  the  sea.  The  family  awaited  develop- 
ments; there  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

But  how  far — how  far  had  "those  two"  gone?  How 
far  were  they  going  to  go?  Could  they  really  be  going 
at  all?  Nothing  could  surely  come  of  it,  for  neither 
of  them  had  any  money.  At  the  most  a  flirtation, 


Evening  at  Richmond  229 

ending,  as  all  such  attachments  should,  at  the  proper 
time. 

Soames's  sister,  Winifred  Dartie,  who  had  imbibed  with 
the  breezes  of  Mayfair — she  lived  in  Green  Street — more 
fashionable  principles  in  regard  to  matrimonial  behaviour 
than  were  current,  for  instance,  in  Ladbroke  Grove, 
laughed  at  the  idea  of  there  being  anything  in  it.  The 
"little  thing" — Irene  was  taller  than  herself,  and  it 
was  real  testimony  to  the  solid  worth  of  a  Forsyte  that 
she  should  always  thus  be  a  "little  thing" — the  little 
thing  was  bored.  Why  shouldn't  she  amuse  herself? 
Soames  was  rather  tiring;  and  as  to  Mr.  Bosinney — only 
that  buffoon  George  would  have  called  him  the  Buccaneer 
— she  maintained  that  he  was  very  chic. 

This  dictum — that  Bosinney  was  chic — caused  quite 
a  sensation.  It  failed  to  convince.  That  he  was  "good- 
looking  in  a  way"  they  were  prepared  to  admit,  but  that 
any  one  would  call  a  man  with  his  pronounced  cheek- 
bones, curious  eyes,  and  soft  felt  hats  chic  was  only 
another  instance  of  Winifred's  extravagant  way  of 
running  after  something  new. 

It  was  that  famous  summer  when  extravagance  was 
fashionable,  when  the  very  earth  was  extravagant, 
chestnut  trees  spread  with  blossom,  and  flowers  drenched 
in  perfume,  as  they  had  never  been  before;  when  roses 
blew  in  every  garden;  and  for  the  swarming  stars  the 
nights  had  hardly  space;  when  every  day  and  all  day 
long  the  sun,  in  full  armour,  swung  his  brazen  shield 
above  the  Park,  and  people  did  strange  things,  lunch- 
ing and  dining  in  the  open  air.  Unprecedented  was 
the  tale  of  cabs  and  carriages  that  streamed  across 
the  bridges  of  the  shining  river,  bearing  the  upper- 
middle  class  in  thousands  to  the  green  glories  of  Bushey, 
Richmond,  Kew,  and  Hampton  Court.  Almost  every 
family  with  any  pretensions  to  be  of  the  carriage-class 


230  The  Man  of  Property 

paid  one  visit  that  year  to  the  horse-chestnuts  at  Bushey , 
or  took  one  drive  amongst  the  Spanish  chestnuts  of 
Richmond  Park.  Bowling  smoothly,  if  dustily,  along, 
in  a  cloud  of  their  own  creation,  they  would  stare  fash- 
ionably at  the  antlered  heads  which  the  great ,  slow  deer 
raised  out  of  a  forest  of  bracken  that  promised  to  autumn 
lovers  such  cover  as  was  never  seen  before.  And  now 
and  again,  as  the  amorous  perfume  of  chestnut  flowers 
and  fern  was  drifted  too  near,  one  would  say  to  the 
other:  "My  dear!  What  a  peculiar  scent!" 

And  the  lime-flowers  that  year  were  of  rare  prime, 
near  honey-coloured.  At  the  corners  of  London  squares 
they  gave  out,  as  the  sun  went  down,  a  perfume  sweeter 
than  the  honey  bees  had  taken — a  perfume  that  stirred 
a  yearning  unnamable  in  the  hearts  of  Forsytes  and  their 
peers,  taking  the  cool  after  dinner  in  the  precincts  of 
those  gardens  to  which  they  alone  had  keys. 

And  that  yearning  made  them  linger  amidst  the  dim 
shapes  of  flower-beds  in  the  failing  daylight,  made  them 
turn,  and  turn,  and  turn  again,  as  though  lovers  were 
waiting  for  them — waiting  for  the  last  light  to  die  away 
under  the  shadow  of  the  branches. 

Some  vague  sympathy  evoked  by  the  scent  of  the 
limes,  some  sisterly  desire  to  see  for  herself,  some  idea 
of  demonstrating  the  soundness  of  her  dictum  that  there 
was  "nothing  in  it";  or  merely  the  craving  to  drive 
down  to  Richmond,  irresistible  that  summer,  moved 
the  mother  of  the  little  Darbies  (of  little  Publius>  of 
Imogen,  Maud,  and  Benedict)  to  write  the  following 
note  to  her  sister-in-law: 

"June  30. 

"  DEAR  IRENE, 

' '  I  hear  that  Soames  is  going  to  Henley  to-morrow 
for  the  night.  I  thought  it  would  be  great  fun  if  we 
made  up  a  little  party  and  drove  down  to  Richmond. 


Evening  at  Richmond  231 

Will  you  ask  Mr.  Bosinney,  and  I  will  get  young  Flippard. 
"Emily  [they  called  their  mother  Emily — -it  was  so 
chic]  will  lend  us  the  carriage.     I  will  call  for  you  and 
your  young  man  at  seven  o  'clock. 

"Your  affectionate  sister, 

"WINIFRED  DARTIE. 

"Montague  believes  the  dinner  at  the  Crown  and 
Sceptre  to  be  quite  eatable." 

Montague  was  Dartie's  second  and  better-known 
name — his  first  being  Moses;  for  he  was  nothing  if  not 
a  man  of  the  world. 

Her  plan  met  with  more  opposition  from  Providence 
than  so  benevolent  a  scheme  deserved.  In  the  first 
place  young  Flippard  wrote: 

"DEAR  MRS.  DARTIE, 

"Awfully  sorry.     Engaged  two  deep. 

"Yours, 
"AUGUSTUS  FLIPPARD." 

It  was  late  to  send  into  the  byeways  and  hedges  to 
remedy  this  misfortune.  With  the  promptitude  and 
conduct  of  a  mother,  Winifred  fell  back  on  her  husband. 
She  had,  indeed,  the  decided  but  tolerant  temperament 
that  goes  with  a  good  deal  of  profile,  fair  hair,  and 
greenish  eyes.  She  was  seldom  or  never  at  a  loss;  or 
if  at  a  loss,  was  always  able  to  convert  it  into  a  gain. 

Dartie,  too,  was  in  good  feather.  Erotic  had  failed 
to  win  the  Lancashire  Cup.  Indeed,  that  celebrated 
animal,  owned  as  he  was  by  a  pillar  of  the  turf,  who  had 
secretly  laid  many  thousands  against  him,  had  not  even 
started.  The  forty-eight  hours  that  followed  his  scratch- 
ing were  among  the  darkest  in  Dartie's  life. 

Visions  of  James  haunted  him  day  and  night.     Black 


232  The  Man  of  Property 

thoughts  about  Soames  mingled  with  the  faintest  hopes. 
On  the  Friday  night  he  got  drunk,  so  greatly  was  he 
affected.  But  on  Saturday  morning  the  true  Stock 
Exchange  instinct  triumphed  within  him.  Owing  some 
hundreds,  which  by  no  possibility  could  he  pay,  he  went 
into  town  and  put  them  all  on  Concertina  for  the  Saltown 
Borough  Handicap. 

As  he  said  to  Major  Scrotton,  with  whom  he  lunched 
at  the  Iseeum:  "That  little  Jew  boy,  Nathans,  had  given 
him  the  tip.  He  did  n't  care  a  cursh.  He  wash  in — a 
mucker.  If  it  did  n't  come  up — well  then,  damme,  the 
old  man  would  have  to  pay! " 

A  bottle  of  Pol  Roger  to  his  own  cheek  had  given  him 
a  new  contempt  for  James. 

It  came  up.  Concertina  was  squeezed  home  by  her 
neck — a  terrible  squeak!  But,  as  Dartie  said:  There 
was  nothing  like  pluck! 

He  was  by  no  means  averse  to  the  expedition  to 
Richmond.  He  would  ' '  stand ' '  it  himself  !  He  cherished 
an  admiration  for  Irene,  and  wished  to  be  on  more 
playful  terms  with  her. 

At  half-past  five  the  Park  Lane  footman  came  round 
to  say:  Mrs.  Forsyte  was  very  sorry,  but  one  of  the 
horses  was  coughing! 

Undaunted  by  this  further  blow,  Winifred  at  once 
despatched  little  Publius  (now  aged  seven)  with  the 
nursery  governess  to  Montpellier  Square. 

They  would  go  down  in  hansoms  and  meet  at  the 
Crown  and  Sceptre  at  7.45. 

Dartie,  on  being  told,  was  pleased  enough.  It  was 
better  than  going  down  with  your  back  to  the  horses! 
He  had  no  objection  to  driving  down  with  Irene.  He 
supposed  they  would  pick  up  the  others  at  Montpellier 
Square,  and  swop  hansoms  there? 

Informed  that  the  meet  was  at  the  Crown  and  Sceptre, 


Evening  at  Richmond  233 

and  that  he  would  have  to  drive  with  his  wife,  he  turned 
sulky,  and  said  it  was  d d  slow! 

At  seven  o'clock  they  started,  Dartie  offering  to  bet 
the  driver  half  a  crown  he  did  n  't  do  it  in  the  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour. 

Twice  only  did  husband  and  wife  exchange  remarks 
on  the  way. 

Dartie  said:  "It'll  put  Master  Soames's  nose  out  of 
joint  to  hear  his  wife's  been  drivin'  in  a  hansom  with 
Master  Bosinney!" 

Winifred  replied:  "Don't  talk  such  nonsense,  Monty! " 

"Nonsense!"  repeated  Dartie.  "You  don't  know 
women,  my  fine  lady!" 

On  the  other  occasion  he  merely  asked:  "How  am  I 
looking?  A  bit  puffy  about  the  gills?  That  fizz  old 
George  is  so  fond  of  is  a  windy  wine! " 

He  had  been  lunching  with  George  Forsyte  at  the 
Haversnake. 

Bosinney  and  Irene  had  arrived  before  them.  They 
were  standing  in  one  of  the  long  French  windows  over- 
looking the  river. 

Windows  that  summer  were  open  all  day  long,  and  all 
night,  too,  and  day  and  night  the  scents  of  flowers  and 
trees  came  in,  the  hot  scent  of  parching  grass,  and  the 
cool  scent  of  the  heavy  dews. 

To  the  eye  of  the  observant  Dartie  his  two  guests  did 
not  appear  to  be  making  much  running,  standing  there 
close  together,  without  a  word.  Bosinney  was  a  hungry- 
looking  creature — not  much  go  about  him! 

He  left  them  to  Winifred,  however,  and  busied  himself 
to  order  the  dinner. 

A  Forsyte  will  require  good,  if  not  delicate  feeding, 
but  a  Dartie  will  tax  the  resources  of  a  Crown  and 
Sceptre.  Living,  as  he  does,  from  hand  to  mouth, 
nothing  is  too  good  for  him  to  eat;  and  he  will  eat  it. 


234  The  Man  of  Property 

His  drink,  too,  will  need  to  be  carefully  provided;  there 
is  much  drink  in  this  country  "not  good  enough"  for  a 
Dartie  ;  he  will  have  the  best.  Paying  for  things  vicari- 
ously, there  is  no  reason  why  he  should  stint  himself. 
To  stint  yourself  is  the  mark  of  a  fool,  not  of  a  Dartie. 

The  best  of  everything!  No  sounder  principle  on 
which  a  man  can  base  his  life,  whose  father-in-law  has  a 
very  considerable  income,  and  a  partiality  for  his  grand- 
children. 

With  his  not  unable  eye  Dartie  had  spotted  this  weak- 
ness in  James  the  very  first  year  after  little  Publius's 
arrival  (an  error) ;  he  had  profited  by  his  perspicacity. 
Four  little  Darties  were  now  a  sort  of  perpetual  insurance. 

The  feature  of  the  feast  was  unquestionably  the  red 
mullet.  This  delectable  fish,  brought  from  a  considerable 
distance  in  a  state  of  almost  perfect  preservation,  was 
first  fried,  then  boned,  then  served  in  ice,  with  Madeira 
punch  in  place  of  sauce,  according  to  a  recipe  known  to  a 
few  men  of  the  world. 

Nothing  else  calls  for  remark  except  the  payment  of 
the  bill  by  Dartie. 

He  had  made  himself  extremely  agreeable  throughout 
the  meal;  his  bold,  admiring  stare  seldom  abandoning 
Irene's  face  and  figure.  As  he  was  obliged  to  confess  to 
himself,  he  got  no  change  out  of  her — she  was  cool  enough, 
as  cool  as  her  shoulders  looked  under  their  veil  of  creamy 
lace.  He  expected  to  have  caught  her  out  in  some  little 
game  with  Bosinney;  but  not  a  bit  of  it,  she  kept  up  her 
end  remarkably  well.  As  for  that  architect  chap,  he 
was  as  glum  as  a  bear  with  a  sore  head — Winifred  could 
barely  get  a  word  out  of  him;  he  ate  nothing,  but  he 
certainly  took  his  liquor,  and  his  face  kept  getting 
whiter,  and  his  eyes  looked  queer. 

It  was  all  very  amusing. 

For  Dartie  himself  was  in  capital  form,  and  talked 


Evening  at  Richmond  235 

freely,  with  a  certain  poignancy,  being  no  fool.  He 
told  two  or  three  stories  verging  on  the  improper,  a 
concession  to  the  company,  for  his  stories  were  not 
used  to  verging.  He  proposed  Irene's  health  in  a  mock 
speech.  Nobody  drank  it,  and  Winifred  said:  "Don't 
be  such  a  clown,  Monty! " 

At  her  suggestion  they  went  after  dinner  to  the  public 
terrace  overlooking  the  river. 

"I  should  like  to  see  the  common  people  making  love," 
she  said,  "it's  such  fun!" 

There  were  numbers  of  them  walking  in  the  cool,  after 
the  day's  heat,  and  the  air  was  alive  with  the  sound  of 
voices,  coarse  and  loud,  or  soft  as  though  murmuring 
secrets. 

It  was  not  long  before  Winifred's  better  sense — she 
was  the  only  Forsyte  present — secured  them  an  empty 
bench.  They  sat  down  in  a  row.  A  heavy  tree  spread 
a  thick  canopy  above  their  heads,  and  the  haze  darkened 
slowly  over  the  river. 

Dartie  sat  at  the  end,  next  to  him  Irene,  then  Bosinney , 
then  Winifred.  There  was  hardly  room  for  four,  and 
the  man  of  the  world  could  feel  Irene's  arm  crushed 
against  his  own ;  he  knew  that  she  could  not  withdraw  it 
without  seeming  rude,  and  this  amused  him;  he  devised 
every  now  and  again  a  movement  that  would  bring  her 
closer  still.  He  thought:  "That  Buccaneer  Johnny 
sha'n't  have  it  all  to  himself!  It's  a  pretty  tight  fit, 
certainly!" 

From  far  down  below  on  the  dark  river  came  drifting 
the  tinkle  of  a  mandolin,  and  voices  singing  the  old 
round: 

A  boat,  a  boat,  unto  the  ferry, 

For  we  '11  go  over  and  be  merry, 

And  laugh,  and  quaff,  and  drink  brown  sherry ! 

And  suddenly  the  moon  appeared,  young  and  tenaer 


236  The  Man  of  Property 

floating  up  on  her  back  from  behind  a  tree;  and  as 
though  she  had  breathed,  the  air  was  cooler,  but  down 
that  cooler  air  came  always  the  warm  odour  of  the  limes. 

Over  his  cigar  Dartie  peered  round  at  Bosinney,  who 
was  sitting  with  his  arms  crossed,  staring  in  front  of  him, 
and  on  his  face  the  look  of  a  man  being  tortured. 

And  Dartie  shot  a  glance  at  the  face  between,  so  veiled 
by  the  overhanging  shadow  that  it  was  but  like  a  darker 
piece  of  the  darkness  shaped  and  breathed  on;  soft,  mys- 
terious, enticing. 

A  hush  had  fallen  on  the  noisy  terrace,  as  if  all  the 
strollers  were  thinking  secrets  too  precious  to  be  spoken. 

And  Dartie  thought:    "Ah!     Women!" 

The  glow  died  above  the  river,  the  singing  ceased; 
the  young  moon  hid  behind  a  tree,  and  all  was  dark 
He  pressed  himself  against  Irene. 

He  was  not  alarmed  at  the  shuddering  that  ran  through 
the  limbs  he  touched,  or  at  the  troubled,  scornful  look  of 
her  eyes.  He  felt  her  trying  to  draw  herself  away,  and 
smiled. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  man  of  the  world  had 
drunk  quite  as  much  as  was  good  for  him. 

With  thick  lips  parted  under  his  well-curled  mous- 
taches, and  his  bold  eyes  aslant  upon  her,  he  had  the 
malicious  look  of  a  satyr. 

Along  the  pathway  of  sky  between  the  hedges  of  the 
tree  tops  the  stars  clustered  forth;  like  mortals  beneath, 
they  seemed  to  shift  and  swarm  and  whisper.  Then 
on  the  terrace  the  buzz  broke  out  once  more,  and  Dartie 
thought:  "Ah!  he's  a  poor,  hungry-looking  devil,  that 
Bosinney!"  and  again  he  pressed  himself  against  Irene. 

The  movement  deserved  a  better  success.  She  rose, 
and  they  all  followed  her. 

The  man  of  the  world  was  more  than  ever  determined 
to  see  what  she  was  made  of.  Along  the  terrace  he  kept 


Evening  at  Richmond  237 

close  at  her  elbow.  He  had  within  him  much  good  wine. 
There  was  the  long  drive  home,  the  long  drive  and  the 
warm  dark  and  the  pleasant  closeness  of  the  hansom 
cab — with  its  insulation  from  the  world  devised  by  some 
great  and  good  man.  That  hungry  architect  chap 
might  drive  with  his  wife — he  wished  him  joy  of  her! 
And  conscious  that  his  voice  was  not  too  steady,  he  was 
careful  not  to  speak;  but  a  smile  had  become  fixed  on 
his  thick  lips. 

They  strolled  along  toward  the  cabs  awaiting  them  at 
the  farther  end.  His  plan  had  the  merit  of  all  great 
plans,  an  almost  brutal  simplicity — he  would  merely  keep 
at  her  elbow  till  she  got  in,  and  get  in  quickly  after  her. 

But  when  Irene  reached  the  cab  she  did  not  get  in;  she 
slipped,  instead,  to  the  horse's  head.  Dartie  was  not  at 
the  moment  sufficiently  master  of  his  legs  to  follow. 
She  stood  stroking  the  horse's  nose,  and,  to  his  annoy- 
ance, Bosinney  was  at  her  side  first.  She  turned  and 
spoke  to  him  rapidly,  in  a  low  voice;  the  words  "That 
man"  reached  Dartie.  He  stood  stubbornly  by  the  cab 
step,  waiting  for  her  to  come  back.  He  knew  a  trick 
worth  two  of  that! 

Here,  in  the  lamplight,  his  figure  (no  more  than 
medium  height),  well  squared  in  its  white  evening 
waistcoat,  his  light  overcoat  flung  over  his  arm,  a  pink 
flower  in  his  button-hole,  and  on  his  dark  face  that  look 
of  confident,  good-humoured  insolence,  he  was  at  his 
best — a  thorough  man  of  the  world. 

Winifred  was  already  in  her  cab.  Dartie  reflected 
that  Bosinney  would  have  a  poorish  time  in  that  cab  if 
he  did  n't  look  sharp !  Suddenly  he  received  a  push  which 
nearly  overturned  him  in  the  road.  Bosinney's  voice 
hissed  in  his  ear;  "I  am  taking  Irene  back;  do  you 
understand?"  He  saw  a  face  white  with  passion,  and 
eyes  that  glared  at  him  like  a  wild  cat's. 


238  The  Man  of  Property 

"Eh?"  he  stammered.  "What?  Not  a  bit!  You 
take  my  wife!" 

"Get  away!"  hissed  Bosinney,  "or  I'll  throw  you 
into  the  road!" 

Dartie  recoiled ;  he  saw  as  plainly  as  possible  that  the 
fellow  meant  it.  In  the  space  he  made  Irene  had 
slipped  by,  her  dress  brushed  his  legs.  Bosinney  stepped 
in  after  her. 

"Go  on!"  he  heard  the  Buccaneer  cry.  The  cabman 
flicked  his  horse.  It  sprang  forward. 

Dartie  stood  for  a  moment  dumfounded;  then,  dash- 
ing at  the  cab  where  his  wife  sat,  he  scrambled  in. 

"Drive  on! "  he  shouted  to  the  driver,  "and  don't  you 
lose  sight  of  that  fellow  in  front! " 

Seated  by  his  wife's  side,  he  burst  into  imprecations. 
Calming  himself  at  last  with  a  supreme  effort,  he  added: 
"A  pretty  mess  you  've  made  of  it,  to  let  the  Buccaneer 
drive  home  with  her;  why  on  earth  could  n't  you  keep 
hold  of  him?  He's  mad  with  love;  any  fool  can  see 
that!" 

He  drowned  Winifred's  rejoinder  with  fresh  calls  to 
the  Almighty;  nor  was  it  until  they  reached  Barnes  that 
he  ceased  a  Jeremiad,  in  the  course  of  which  he  had 
abused  her,  her  father,  her  brother,  Irene,  Bosinney,  the 
name  of  Forsyte,  his  own  children,  and  cursed  the  day 
when  he  had  ever  married. 

Winifred,  a  woman  of  strong  character,  let  him  have 
his  say,  at  the  end  of  which  he  lapsed  into  sulky  silence. 
His  angry  eyes  never  deserted  the  back  of  that  cab, 
which,  like  a  lost  chance,  haunted  the  darkness  in  front 
of  him. 

Fortunately  he  could  not  hear  Bosinney 's  passionate 
pleading — that  pleading  which  the  man  of  the  world's 
conduct  had  let  loose  like  a  flood ;  he  could  not  see  Irene 
shivering,  as  though  some  garment  had  been  torn  from 


Evening  at  Richmond  239 

her,  nor  her  eyes,  black  and  mournful,  like  the  eyes  of  a 
beaten  child.  He  could  not  hear  Bosinney  entreating, 
entreating,  always  entreating ;  could  not  hear  her  sudden, 
soft  weeping,  nor  see  that  poor,  hungry-looking  devil, 
awed  and  trembling,  humbly  touching  her  hand. 

In  Montpellier  Square  their  cabman,  following  his 
instructions  to  the  letter,  faithfully  drew  up  behind  the 
cab  in  front.  The  Darties  saw  Bosinney  spring  out,  and 
Irene  follow,  and  hasten  up  the  steps  with  bent  head. 
She  evidently  had  her  key  in  her  hand,  for  she  disap- 
peared at  once.  It  was  impossible  to  tell  whether  she 
had  turned  to  speak  to  Bosinney. 

The  latter  came  walking  past  their  cab ;  both  husband 
and  wife  had  an  admirable  view  of  his  face  in  the  light  of 
a  street  lamp.  It  was  working  with  violent  emotion. 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Bosinney!"  called  Winifred. 

Bosinney  started,  clawed  off  his  hat,  and  hurried  on. 
He  had  obviously  forgotten  their  existence. 

"There!"  said  Dartie,  "did  you  see  the  beast's  face? 
What  did  I  say?  Fine  games!"  He  improved  the 
occasion. 

There  had  so  clearly  been  a  crisis  in  the  cab  that  Wini- 
fred was  unable  to  defend  her  theory. 

She  said:  "I  shall  say  nothing  about  it.  I  don't  see 
any  use  in  making  a  fuss! " 

With  that  view  Dartie  at  once  concurred ;  looking  upon 
James  as  a  private  preserve,  he  disapproved  of  his  being 
disturbed  by  the  troubles  of  others. 

"Quite  right,"  he  said;  "let  Soames  look  after  him- 
self. He's  jolly  well  able  to!" 

Thus  speaking,  the  Darties  entered  their  habitat  in 
Green  Street,  the  rent  of  which  was  paid  by  James,  and 
sought  a  well-earned  rest.  The  hour  was  midnight, 
and  no  Forsytes  remained  abroad  in  the  streets  to  spy  out 
Bosinney 's  wanderings;  to  see  him  return  and  stand 


240  The  Man  of  Property 

against  the  rails  of  the  Square  garden,  back  from  the 
glow  of  the  street  lamp;  to  see  him  stand  there  in  the 
shadow  of  trees,  watching  the  house  where  in  the  dark 
was  hidden  she  whom  he  would  have  given  the  world  to 
see  for  a  single  minute — she  who  was  now  to  him  the 
breath  of  the  lime-trees,  the  meaning  of  the  light  and 
the  darkness,  the  very  beating  of  his  own  heart. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

DIAGNOSIS   OF  A  FORSYTE 

IT  is  in  the  nature  of  a  Forsyte  to  be  ignorant  that  he 
is  a  Forsyte;  but  young  Jolyon  was  well  aware 
of  being  one.  He  had  not  known  it  till  after  the 
decisive  step  which  had  made  him  an  outcast;  since 
then  the  knowledge  had  been  with  him  continually. 
He  felt  it  throughout  his  alliance,  throughout  all  his 
dealings,  with  his  second  wife,  who  was  emphatically 
not  a  Forsyte. 

He  knew  that  if  he  had  not  possessed  in  great  measure 
the  eye  for  what  he  wanted,  the  tenacity  to  hold  on  to  it, 
the  sense  of  the  folly  of  wasting  that  for  which  he  had 
given  so  big  a  price — in  other  words,  the  "sense  of 
property" — he  could  never  have  retained  her  (perhaps 
never  would  have  desired  to  retain  her)  with  him 
through  all  the  financial  troubles,  slights,  and  miscon- 
structions of  those  fifteen  years;  never  have  induced 
her  to  marry  him  on  the  death  of  his  first  wife;  never 
have  lived  it  all  through,  and  come  up,  as  it  were,  thin, 
but  smiling. 

He  was  one  of  those  men,  who,  seated  cross-legged  like 
miniature  Chinese  idols  in  the  cages  of  their  own  hearts, 
are  ever  smiling  at  themselves  a  doubting  smile.  Not 
that  this  smile,  so  intimate  and  eternal,  interfered  with 
his  actions,  which,  like  his  chin  and  his  temperament, 
were  quite  a  peculiar  blend  of  softness  and  determination. 

He  was  conscious,  too,  of  being  a  Forsyte  in  his  work, 

1 6  .,841 


242  The  Man  of  Property 

that  painting  of  water-colours  to  which  he  devoted  so 
much  energy,  always  with  an  eye  on  himself,  as  though 
he  could  not  take  so  unpractical  a  pursuit  quite  seriously, 
and  always  with  a  certain  queer  uneasiness  that  he  did 
not  make  more  money  at  it. 

It  was,  then,  this  consciousness  of  what  it  meant  to  be  a 
Forsyte,  that  made  him  receive  the  following  letter  from 
old  Jolyon,  with  a  mixture  of  sympathy  and  disgust: 

"  SHELDRAKE  HOUSE, 

"  BROADSTAIRS, 
"July  i. 

"MY  DEAR  Jo, 

[The  Dad's  handwriting  had  altered  very  little  in  the 
thirty  odd  years  that  he  remembered  it.] 

"We  have  been  here  now  a  fortnight,  and  have  had 
good  weather  on  the  whole.  The  air  is  bracing,  but  my 
liver  is  out  of  order,  and  I  shall  be  glad  enough  to  get 
back  to  town.  I  cannot  say  much  for  June,  her  health 
and  spirits  are  very  indifferent,  and  I  don't  see  what  is 
to  come  of  it.  She  says  nothing,  but  it  is  clear  that  she 
is  harping  on  this  engagement,  which  is  an  engagement 
and  no  engagement,  and — goodness  knows  what.  I 
have  grave  doubts  whether  she  ought  to  be  allowed  to 
return  to  London  in  the  present  state  of  affairs,  but  she 
is  so  self-willed  that  she  might  take  it  into  her  head  to 
come  up  at  any  moment.  The  fact  is  some  one  ought 
to  speak  to  Bosinney  and  ascertain  what  he  means. 
I  'm  afraid  of  this  myself,  for  I  should  certainly  rap  him 
over  the  knuckles,  but  I  thought  that  you,  knowing 
him  at  the  Club,  might  put  in  a  word,  and  get  to  ascertain 
what  the  fellow  is  about.  You  will,  of  course,  in  no  way 
commit  June.  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you  in  the 
course  of  a  few  days  whether  you  have  succeeded  in 
gaining  any  information.  The  situation  is  very  dis- 


Diagnosis  of  a  Forsyte  243 

tressing  to  me,  I  worry  about  it  at  night.     With  my 
love  to  Jolly  and  Holly. 

"I  am, 

"Your  affect,  father, 

" JOLYON  FORSYTE." 

Young  Jolyon  pondered  this  letter  so  long  and  seriously 
that  his  wife  noticed  his  preoccupation,  and  asked  him 
what  was  the  matter.  He  replied :  ' '  Nothing. ' ' 

It  was  a  fixed  principle  with  him  never  to  allude  to 
June.  She  might  take  alarm,  he  did  not  know  what  she 
might  think;  he  hastened,  therefore,  to  banish  from 
his  manner  all  traces  of  absorption,  but  in  this  he  was 
about  as  successful  as  his  father  would  have  been,  for  he 
had  inherited  all  old  Jolyon's  transparency  in  matters 
of  domestic  finesse;  and  young  Mrs.  Jolyon,  busying 
herself  over  the  affairs  of  the  house,  went  about  with 
tightened  lips,  stealing  at  him  unfathomable  looks. 

He  started  for  the  Club  in  the  afternoon  with  the  let- 
ter in  his  pocket,  and  without  having  made  up  his  mind. 

To  sound  a  man  as  to  "his  intentions"  was  peculiarly 
unpleasant  to  him ;  nor  did  his  own  anomalous  position 
diminish  this  unpleasantness.  It  was  so  like  his  family, 
so  like  all  the  people  they  knew  and  mixed  with,  to  enforce 
what  they  called  their  rights  over  a  man,  to  bring  him 
up  to  the  mark;  so  like  them  to  carry  their  business 
principles  into  their  private  relations ! 

And  how  that  phrase  in  the  letter — "You  will,  of 
course,  in  no  way  commit  June" — gave  the  whole  thing 
away. 

Yet  the  letter,  with  the  personal  grievance,  the  concern 
for  June,  the  "rap  over  the  knuckles, "  was  all  so  natural. 
No  wonder  his  father  wanted  to  know  what  Bosinney 
meant,  no  wonder  he  was  angry. 

It  was  difficult  to  refuse!     But  why  give  the  thing  to 


244  The  Man  of  Property 

him  to  do?  That  was  surely  quite  unbecoming;  but  so 
long  as  a  Forsyte  got  what  he  was  after,  he  was  not  too 
particular  about  the  means,  provided  appearances  were 
saved. 

How  should  he  set  about  it,  or  how  refuse?  Both 
seemed  impossible.  So,  young  Jolyon! 

He  arrived  at  the  Club  at  three  o'clock,  and  the  first 
person  he  saw  was  Bosinney  himself,  seated  in  a  corner, 
staring  out  of  the  window. 

Young  Jolyon  sat  down  not  far  off,  and  began  nervously 
to  reconsider  his  position.  He  looked  covertly  at  Bosin- 
ney sitting  there  unconscious.  He  did  not  know  him 
very  well,  and  studied  him  attentively  for  perhaps  the 
first  time;  an  unusual-looking  man,  unlike  in  dress,  face, 
and  manner  to  most  of  the  other  members  of  the  Club — 
young  Jolyon  himself,  however  different  he  had  become 
in  mood  and  temper,  had  always  retained  the  neat  reti- 
cence of  Forsyte  appearance.  He  alone  among  Forsytes 
was  ignorant  of  Bosinney's  nickname.  The  man  was 
unusual,  not  eccentric,  but  unusual;  he  looked  worn, 
too,  haggard,  hollow  in  the  cheeks  beneath  those  broad, 
high  cheek-bones,  though  without  any  appearance  of  ill- 
health,  for  he  was  strongly  built,  with  curly  hair  that 
seemed  to  show  all  the  vitality  of  a  fine  constitution. 

Something  in  his  face  and  attitude  touched  young 
Jolyon.  He  knew  what  suffering  was  like,  and  this  man 
looked  as  if  he  were  suffering. 

He  got  up  and  touched  his  arm. 

Bosinney  started,  but  exhibited  no  sign  of  embarrass- 
ment on  seeing  who  it  was. 

Young  Jolyon  sat  down. 

"I  have  n't  seen  you  for  a  long  time, "  he  said.  "How 
are  you  getting  on  with  my  cousin's  house?" 

"It'll  be  finished  in  about  a  week." 

"I  congratulate  you!" 


Diagnosis  of  a  Forsyte  245 

"Thanks — I  don't  know  that  it  's  much  of  a  subject 
for  congratulation." 

1 '  No  ? ' '  queried  young  Jolyon ;  "  I  should  have  thought 
you'd  be  glad  to  get  a  long  job  like  that  off  your  hands; 
but  I  suppose  you  feel  about  it  much  as  I  do  when  I  part 
with  a  picture — a  sort  of  child?" 

He  looked  kindly  at  Bosinney. 

"Yes,"  said  the  latter  more  cordially,  "it  goes  out 
from  you  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  I  did  n't  know  you 
painted." 

"  Only  water-colours ;  I  can't  say  I  believe  in  my  work." 

"Don't  believe  in  it?  Then  how  can  you  do  it? 
Work  's  no  use  unless  you  believe  in  it! " 

"Good,"  said  young  Jolyon;  "it  's  exactly  what  I  've 
always  said.  By-the-by,  have  you  noticed  that  when 
ever  one  says  'Good,'  one  always  adds  'it's  exactly 
what  I  've  always  said' ?  But  if  you  ask  me  how  I  do  it, 
I  answer,  because  I  'm  a  Forsyte." 

"A  Forsyte!     I  never  thought  of  you  as  one!" 

"A  Forsyte,"  replied  young  Jolyon,  "is  not  an  un- 
common animal.  There  are  hundreds  among  the  mem- 
bers of  this  Club.  Hundreds  out  there  in  the  streets; 
you  meet  them  wherever  you  go! " 

"And  how  do  you  tell  them,  may  I  ask?"  said 
Bosinney. 

"By  their  sense  of  property.  A  Forsyte  takes  a 
practical — one  might  say  a  common-sense — view  of 
things,  and  a  practical  view  of  things  is  based  funda- 
mentally on  a  sense  of  property.  A  Forsyte,  you  will 
notice,  never  gives  himself  away." 

"Joking?" 

Young  Jolyon's  eye  twinkled. 

"Not  much.  As  a  Forsyte  myself,  I  have  no  business 
to  talk.  But  I  'm  a  kind  of  thoroughbred  mongrel ;  now , 
there 's  no  mistaking  you.  You  're  as  different  from  me 


246  The  Man  of  Property 

as  I  atn  from  my  Uncle  James,  who  is  the  perfect 
specimen  of  a  Forsyte.  His  sense  of  property  is 
extreme,  while  you  have  practically  none.  Without 
me  in  between,  you  would  seem  like  a  different  spe- 
cies. I  'm  the  missing  link.  We  are,  of  course,  all  of 
us  the  slaves  of  property,  and  I  admit  that  it 's  a 
question  of  degree,  but  what  I  call  a  'Forsyte'  is  a 
man  who  is  decidedly  more  than  less  a  slave  of  prop- 
erty. He  knows  a  good  thing,  he  knows  a  safe  thing, 
and  his  grip  on  property — it  does  n't  matter  whether 
it  be  wives,  houses,  money,  or  reputation — is  his  hall- 
mark." 

"Ah!"  murmured  Bosinney.  "  You  should  patent  the 
word." 

"I  should  like,"  said  young  Jolyon,  "to  lecture  on  it: 
'Properties  and  quality  of  a  Forsyte.  This  little 
animal,  disturbed  by  the  ridicule  of  his  own  sort,  is  un- 
affected in  his  motions  by  the  laughter  of  strange 
creatures  (you  or  I).  Hereditarily  disposed  to  myopia, 
he  recognises  only  the  persons  and  habitats  of  his  own 
species,  amongst  which  he  passes  an  existence  of  com- 
petitive tranquillity.' ' 

"You  talk  of  them,"  said  Bosinney,  "as  if  they  were 
half  England." 

"They  are,"  repeated  young  Jolyon,  "half  England, 
and  the  better  half,  too,  the  safe  half,  the  three  per  cent, 
half,  the  half  that  counts.  It's  their  wealth  and  se- 
curity that  makes  everything  possible;  makes  your  art 
possible,  makes  literature,  science,  even  religion  possible. 
Without  Forsytes,  who  believe  in  none  of  these  things, 
but  turn  them  all  to  use,  where  should  we  be?  My  dear- 
sir,  the  Forsytes  are  the  middlemen,  the  commercials, 
the  pillars  of  society,  the  corner-stones  of  convention; 
everything  that  is  admirable ! ' ' 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  catch  your  drift,' '  said  Bosin 


Diagnosis  of  a  Forsyte  247 

ney,  "but  I  fancy  there  are  plenty  of  Forsytes,  as  you 
call  them,  in  my  profession." 

"Certainly,"  replied  young  Jolyon.  "The  great 
majority  of  architects,  painters,  or  writers  have  no 
principles  like  any  other  Forsytes.  Art,  literature, 
religion,  survive  by  virtue  of  the  few  cranks  who  really 
believe  in  such  things,  and  the  many  Forsytes  who 
make  a  commercial  use  of  them.  At  a  low  estimate, 
three-fourths  of  our  Royal  Academicians  are  Forsytes, 
seven-eighths  of  our  novelists,  a  large  portion  of  the  press. 
Of  science  I  can't  speak;  they  are  magnificently  repre- 
sented in  religion;  in  the  House  of  Commons  perhaps 
more  numerous  than  anywhere;  the  aristocracy  speaks 
for  itself.  But  I  'm  not  laughing.  It  is  dangerous  to  go 
against  the  majority — and  what  a  majority! "  He  fixed 
his  eyes  on  Bosinney:  "It  's  dangerous  to  let  anything 
carry  you  away — a  house,  a  picture,  a — woman! " 

They  looked  at  each  other.  And,  as  though  he  had 
done  that  which  no  Forsyte  did — given  himself  away, — • 
young  Jolyon  drew  into  his  shell.  Bosinney  broke  the 
silence. 

"Why  do  you  take  your  dwn  people  as  the  type?" 
said  he. 

"My  people,"  replied  young  Jolyon,  "are  not  very 
extreme,  and  they  have  their  own  private  peculiarities, 
like  every  other  family,  but  they  possess  in  a  remarkable 
degree  those  two  qualities  which  are  the  real  tests  of  a 
Forsyte :  the  power  of  never  being  able  to  give  yourself 
up  to  anything  soul  and  body,  and  the  'sense  of 
property. '  " 

Bosinney  smiled:  "How  about  the  big  one,  for 
instance?" 

' '  Do  you  mean  Swithin  ? ' '  asked  young  JoAyon.  ' '  Ah ! 
in  Swithin  there  's  something  primeval  still.  The  town 
and  middle-class  life  have  n't  digested  him  yet,  All  the 


248  The  Man  of  Property 

old  centuries  of  farmwork  and  brute  force  have  settled 
in  him,  and  there  they  've  stuck,  for  all  he's  so 
distinguished." 

Bosinney  seemed  to  ponder.  "Well,  you've  hit  your 
Cousin  Soames  off  to  the  life, "  he  said  suddenly.  ' ' He 'II 
never  blow  his  brains  out." 

Young  Jolyon  shot  at  him  a  penetrating  glance. 

"No,"  he  said;  "he  won't.  That's  why  he  's  to  be 
reckoned  with.  Look  out  for  their  grip!  It's  easy  to 
laugh,  but  don't  mistake  me.  It  does  n't  do  to  despise 
a  Forsyte;  it  doesn't  do  to  disregard  one!" 

* '  Yet  you '  ve  done  it  yourself  ! ' ' 

Young  Jolyon  acknowledged  the  hit  by  losing  his 
smile. 

"You  forget, "  he  said  with  a  queer  pride,  "I  can  hold 
on,  too — I'm  a  Forsyte  myself.  We're  all  in  the  path 
of  great  forces.  The  man  who  leaves  the  shelter  of  the 
wall — well — you  know  what  I  mean.  I  don't,"  he 
ended  very  low,  as  though  uttering  a  threat,  "recommend 
every  man  to — go — my — way.  It  depends." 

The  colour  rushed  into  Bosinney 's  face,  but  soon 
receded,  leaving  it  sallow-brown  as  before.  He  gave  a 
short  laugh,  that  left  his  lips  fixed  in  a  queer,  fierce 
smile;  his  eyes  mocked  young  Jolyon. 

"Thanks,"  he  said.  "  It 's  deuced  kind  of  you.  But 
you're  not  the  only  chaps  that  can  hold  on."  He  rose. 

Young  Jolyon  looked  after  him  as  he  walked  away, 
and,  resting  his  head  on  his  hand,  sighed. 

In  the  drowsy,  almost  empty  room  the  only  sounds 
were  the  rustle  of  newspapers,  the  scraping  of  matches 
being  struck.  He  stayed  a  long  time  without  moving, 
living  over  again  those  days  when  he,  too,  had  sat  long 
hours  watching  the  clock,  waiting  for  the  minutes  to 
pass — iong  hours  full  of  the  torments  of  uncertainty,  and 
of  a  fierce,  sweet  aching;  and  the  slow,  delicious  agony 


Diagnosis  of  a  Forsyte  249 

of  that  season  came  back  to  him  with  its  old  poignancy. 
The  sight  of  Bosinney,  with  his  haggard  face,  and  his 
restless  eyes  always  wandering  to  the  clock,  had  roused 
in  him  a  pity,  with  which  was  mingled  strange,  irresisti- 
ble envy. 

He  knew  the  signs  so  well.  Whither  was  he  going — to 
what  sort  of  fate?  What  kind  of  woman  was  it  who 
was  drawing  him  to  her  by  that  magnetic  force  which  no 
consideration  of  honour,  no  principle,  no  interest  could 
withstand ;  from  which  the  only  escape  was  flight  ? 

Flight!  But  why  should  Bosinney  fly?  A  man  fled 
when  he  was  in  danger  of  destroying  hearth  and  home, 
when  there  were  children,  when  he  felt  himself  trampling 
down  ideals,  breaking  something.  But  here,  so  he  had 
heard,  it  was  all  broken  to  his  hand. 

He  himself  had  not  fled,  nor  would  he  fly  if  it  were  all 
to  come  over  again.  Yet  he  had  gone  further  than 
Bosinney,  had  broken  up  his  own  unhappy  home,  not 
some  one  else's.  And  the  old  saying  came  back  to  him: 
"A  man's  fate  lies  in  his  own  heart." 

In  his  own  heart !  The  proof  of  the  pudding  was  in  the 
eating — Bosinney  had  still  to  eat  his  pudding. 

His  thoughts  passed  to  the  woman,  the  woman  whom 
he  did  not  know,  but  the  outline  of  whose  story  he  had 
heard. 

An  unhappy  marriage!  No  ill-treatment — only  that 
indefinable  malaise,  that  terrible  blight  which  killed  all 
sweetness  under  Heaven,  and  so  from  day  to  day,  from 
night  to  night,  from  week  to  week,  from  year  to  year,  till 
death  should  end  it ! 

But  young  Jolyon,  the  bitterness  of  whose  own  feelings 
time  had  assuaged,  saw  Soames  's  side  of  the  question  too . 
Whence  should  a  man  like  his  cousin,  saturated  with  all 
the  prejudices  and  beliefs  of  his  class,  draw  the  insight 
or  inspiration  necessary  to  break  up  this  life?  It  was  a 


250  The  Man  of  Property 

question  of  imagination,  of  projecting  himself  into  the 
future  beyond  the  unpleasant  gossip,  sneers,  and  tattle 
that  followed  on  such  separations,  beyond  the  passing 
pangs  that  lack  of  the  sight  of  her  would  cause,  beyond 
the  grave  disapproval  of  the  worthy.  But  few  men, 
and  especially  few  men  of  Soames's  class,  had  imagina- 
tion enough  for  that.  A  deal  of  mortals  in  this  world, 
and  not  enough  imagination  to  go  round!  And  sweet 
Heaven,  what  a  difference  between  theory  and  practice; 
many  a  man,  perhaps  even  Soames,  held  chivalrous 
views  on  such  matters,  who  when  the  shoe  pinched  found 
a  distinguishing  factor  that  made  of  himself  an  exception. 
Then,  too,  he  distrusted  his  judgment.  He  had  been 
through  the  experience  himself,  had  tasted  to  the  dregs 
the  bitterness  of  an  unhappy  marriage,  and  how  could  he 
take  the  wide  and  dispassionate  view  of  those  who  had 
never  been  within  sound  of  the  battle?  His  evidence 
was  too  first-hand — like  the  evidence  on  military  matters 
of  a  soldier  who  has  been  through  much  active  service, 
against  that  of  civilians  who  have  not  suffered  the  dis- 
advantage of  seeing  things  too  close.  Most  people 
would  consider  such  a  marriage  as  that  of  Soames  and 
Irene  quite  fairly  successful;  he  had  money,  she  had 
beauty;  it  was  a  case  for  compromise.  There  was  no 
reason  why  they  should  not  jog  along,  even  if  they  hated 
each  other.  It  would  not  matter  if  they  went  their  own 
ways  a  little  so  long  as  the  decencies  were  observed — 
the  sanctity  of  the  marriage  tie,  of  the  common  home, 
respected.  Half  the  marriages  of  the  upper  classes  were 
conducted  on  these  lines:  do  not  offend  the  suscepti- 
bilities of  Society;  do  not  offend  the  susceptibilities  of 
the  Church.  To  avoid  offending  these  is  worth  the  sacri- 
fice of  any  private  feelings.  The  advantages  of  the 
stable  home  are  visible,  tangible,  so  many  pieces  of 
property;  there  is  no  risk  in  the  statu  quo.  To  break 


Diagnosis  of  a  Forsyte  251 

up  a  home  is  at  the  best  a  dangerous  experiment,  and 
selfish  into  the  bargain. 

This  was  the  case  for  the  defence,  and  young  Jolyon 
sighed. 

"The  core  of  it  all,"  he  thought,  "is  property,  but 
there  are  many  people  who  would  not  like  it  put  that 
way.  To  them  it  is  '  the  sanctity  of  the  marriage  tie ' ; 
but  the  sanctity  of  the  marriage  tie  is  dependent  on  the 
sanctity  of  the  family,  and  the  sanctity  of  the  family  is 
dependent  on  the  sanctity  of  property.  And  yet  I 
imagine  all  these  people  are  followers  of  One  who  never 
owned  anything.  It  is  curious!" 

And  again  young  Jolyon  sighed. 

"Am  I  going  on  my  way  home  to  ask  any  poor  devils 
I  meet  to  share  my  dinner,  which  will  then  be  too  little 
for  myself,  or,  at  all  events,  for  my  wife,  who  is  necessary 
to  my  health  and  happiness?  It  may  be  that  after  all 
Soames  does  well  to  exercise  his  rights  and  support  by  his 
practice  the  sacred  principle  of  property  which  benefits 
us  all,  with  the  exception  of  those  who  suffer  by  the 
process." 

And  so  he  left  his  chair,  threaded  his  way  through  the 
maze  of  seats,  took  his  hat,  and  languidly  up  the  hot 
streets  crowded  with  carriages,  reeking  with  dusty 
odours,  wended  his  way  home. 

Before  reaching  Wistaria  Avenue  he  removed  old 
Jolyon 's  letter  from  his  pocket,  and  tearing  it  carefully 
into  tiny  pieces  scattered  them  in  the  dust  of  the  road. 

He  let  himself  in  with  his  key,  and  called  his  wife's 
name.  But  she  had  gone  out,  taking  Jolly  and  Holly, 
and  the  house  was  empty;  alone  in  the  garden  the  dog 
Balthasar  lay  in  the  shade  snapping  at  flies. 

Young  Jolyon  took  his  seat  there,  too,  under  the  pear- 
tree  that  bore  no  fruit. 


CHAPTER  XX 

BOSINNEY    ON     PAROLE 

THE  day  after  the  evening    at  Richmond    Soames 
returned  from  Henley  by  a  morning  train.      Not 
constitutionally    interested  in   amphibious  sports,    his 
visit  had  been  one  of  business  rather  than  pleasure,  a 
client  of  some  importance  having  asked  him  down. 

He  went  straight  to  the  City,  but  finding  things  slack, 
he  left  at  three  o  'clock,  glad  of  this  chance  to  get  home 
quietly.  Irene  did  not  expect  him.  Not  that  he  had 
any  desire  to  spy  on  her  actions,  but  there  was  no  harm 
in  thus  unexpectedly  surveying  the  scene. 

After  changing  to  Park  clothes  he  went  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. She  was  sitting  idly  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa, 
her  favourite  seat ;  and  there  were  circles  under  her  eyes, 
as  though  she  had  not  slept. 

He  asked:  "How  is  it  you're  in?  Are  you  expecting 
somebody?" 

"Yes — that  is,  not  particularly." 

"Who?" 

"Mr.  Bosinney  said  he  might  come." 

"Bosinney?    He  ought  to  be  at  work." 

To  this  she  made  no  answer. 

"  Well, "  said  Soames,  "I  want  you  to  come  out  to  the 
Stores  with  me,  and  after  that  we'll  go  to  the  Park." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  out;   I  have  a  headache." 

Soames  replied:   "If  ever  I  want  you  to  do  anything, 

252 


Bosinney  on  Parole  253 

you've  always  got  a  headache.  It'll  do  you  good  to 
come  and  sit  under  the  trees." 

She  did  not  answer. 

Soames  was  silent  for  some  minutes;  at  last  he  said: 
"I  don't  know  what  your  idea  of  a  wife's  duty  is.  I 
never  have  known!" 

He  had  not  expected  her  to  reply,  but  she  did. 

"I  have  tried  to  do  what  you  want;  it's  not  my 
fault  that  I  haven't  been  able  to  put  my  heart  into  it." 

"Whose  fault  is  it,  then?"     He  watched  her  askance. 

"  Before  we  were  married  you  promised  to  let  me  go  if 
our  marriage  was  not  a  success.  Is  it  a  success? " 

Soames  frowned. 

"Success,"  he  stammered — "it  would  be  a  success  if 
you  behaved  yourself  properly!" 

" I  have  tried, "  said  Irene.     "Will  you  let  me  go? " 

Soames  turned  away.  Secretly  alarmed,  he  took 
refuge  in  bluster. 

"Let  you  go?  You  don't  know  what  you're  talking 
about.  Let  you  go?  How  can  I  let  you  go?  We're 
married,  are n 't  we?  Then,  what  are  you  talking  about? 
For  God's  sake,  don't  let's  have  any  of  this  sort  of 
nonsense!  Get  your  hat  on,  and  come  and  sit  in  the  Park." 

"Then,  you  won't  let  me  go?" 

He  felt  her  eyes  resting  on  him  with  a  strange,  touching 
look. 

"Let  you  go!"  he  said;  "and  what  on  earth  would 
you  do  with  yourself  if  I  did?  You've  got  no  money!  " 

"I  could  manage  somehow." 

He  took  a  swift  turn  up  and  down  the  room;  then 
came  and  stood  before  her. 

"Understand,"  he  said,  "once  and  for  all,  I  won't 
have  you  say  this  sort  of  thing.  Go  and  get  your  hat 
on!" 

She  did  not  move. 


254  The  Man  of  Property 

"I  suppose,"  said  Soames,  "you  don't  want  to  miss 
Bosinney  if  he  comes!  " 

Irene  got  up  slowly  and  left  the  room.  She  came 
down  with  her  hat  on. 

They  went  out. 

In  the  Park,  the  motley  hour  of  mid-afternoon,  when 
foreigners  and  other  pathetic  folk  drive,  thinking  them- 
selves to  be  in  fashion,  had  passed;  the  right,  the  proper, 
hour  had  come,  was  nearly  gone,  before  Soames  and 
Irene  seated  themselves  under  the  Achilles  statue. 

It  was  some  time  since  he  had  enjoyed  her  company  in 
the  Park.  That  was  one  of  the  past  delights  of  the  first 
two  seasons  of  his  married  life,  when  to  feel  himself  the 
possessor  of  this  gracious  creature  before  all  London  had 
been  his  greatest,  though  secret,  pride.  How  many  after- 
noons had  he  not  sat  beside  her,  extremely  neat,  with 
light  grey  gloves  and  faint,  supercilious  smile,  nodding 
to  acquaintances,  and  now  and  again  removing  his  hat! 

His  light  grey  gloves  were  still  on  his  hands,  and  on  his 
lips  his  smile  sardonic,  but  where  the  feeling  in  his  heart? 

The  seats  were  emptying  fast,  but  still  he  kept  her 
there,  silent  and  pale,  as  though  to  work  out  a  secret 
punishment.  Once  or  twice  he  made  some  comment, 
and  she  bent  her  head,  or  answered  "Yes"  with  a  tired 
smile. 

Along  the  rails  a  man  was  walking  so  fast  that  people 
stared  after  him  when  he  passed. 

" Look  at  that  ass! "  said  Soames ;  "he  must  be  mad  to 
walk  like  that  in  this  heat! " 

He  turned ;  Irene  had  made  a  rapid  movement. 

"Hallo!  "  he  said,   "it's  our  friend  the  Buccaneer!  " 

And  he  sat  still,  with  his  sneering  smile,  conscious  that 
Irene  was  sitting  still,  and  smiling  too. 

"Will  she  bow  to  him? "  he  thought. 

But  she  made  no  sign. 


Bosinney  on  Parole  255 

Bosinney  reached  the  end  of  the  rails,  and  came 
walking  back  amongst  the  chairs,  quartering  his  ground 
like  a  pointer.  When  he  saw  them  he  stopped  short, 
and  raised  his  hat. 

The  smile  never  left  Soames's  face;  he  also  took  off 
his  hat. 

Bosinney  came  up,  looking  exhausted,  like  a  man  after 
hard  physical  exercise;  the  sweat  stood  in  drops  on  his 
brow,  and  Soames's  smile  seemed  to  say:  "You've  had  a 
trying  time,  my  friend!  What  are  you  doing  in  the 
Park?"  he  asked.  "We  thought  you  despised  such 
frivolity!" 

Bosinney  did  not  seem  to  hear;  he  made  his  answer  to 
Irene:  "  I  've  been  round  to  your  place ;  I  hoped  I  should 
find  you  in." 

Somebody  tapped  Soames  on  the  back,  and  spoke  to 
him ;  and  in  the  exchange  of  platitudes  over  his  shoulder, 
he  missed  her  answer,  and  took  a  resolution. 

"We're  just  going  in,"  he  said  to  Bosinney;  "you'd 
better  come  back  to  dinner  with  us."  Into  that  invita- 
tion he  put  a  strange  bravado,  a  stranger  pathos:  "  You 
ean't  deceive  me,"  his  look  and  voice  seemed  saying, 
"but  see — I  trust  you — I'm  not  afraid  of  you!" 

They  started  back  to  Montpellier  Square  together, 
Irene  between  them.  In  the  crowded  streets  Soames 
went  on  in  front.  He  did  not  listen  to  their  conversation ; 
the  strange  resolution  of  trustfulness  he  had  taken  seemed 
to  animate  even  his  secret  conduct.  Like  a  gambler, 
he  said  to  himself:  "  It 's  a  card  I  dare  not  throw  away — I 
must  play  it  for  what  it 's  worth.  I  have  not  too  many 
chances." 

He  dressed  slowly,  heard  her  leave  her  room  and  go 
down-stairs,  and,   for  full   five  minutes  after,  dawdled 
about    in    his    dressing-room.     Then    he    went    down 
purposely  shutting  the  door  loudly  to  show  that  he  was 


256  The  Man  of  Property 

coming.  He  found  them  standing  by  the  hearth,  perhaps 
talking,  perhaps  not ;  he  could  not  say. 

He  played  his  part  out  in  the  farce,  the  long  evening 
through — his  manner  to  his  guest  more  friendly  than  it 
had  ever  been  before;  and  when  at  last  Bosinney  went, 
he  said:  "You  must  come  again  soon;  Irene  likes  to 
have  you  to  talk  about  the  house! "  Again  his  voice  had 
the  strange  bravado  and  the  stranger  pathos;  but  his 
hand  was  as  cold  as  ice. 

Loyal  to  his  resolution,  he  turned  away  from  their 
parting,  turned  away  from  his  wife  as  she  stood  under 
the  hanging  lamp  to  say  good-night — away  from  the 
sight  of  her  golden  head  shining  so  under  the  light,  of 
her  smiling  mournful  lips;  away  from  the  sight  of 
Bosinney 's  eyes  looking  at  her,  so  like  a  dog's  looking  at 
its  master. 

And  he  went  to  bed  with  the  certainty  that  Bosinney 
was  in  love  with  his  wife. 

The  summer  night  was  hot,  so  hot  and  still  that 
through  every  opened  window  came  in  but  hotter  air. 
For  long  hours  he  lay  listening  to  her  breathing. 

She  could  sleep,  but  he  must  lie  awake.  And,  lying 
awake,  he  hardened  himself  to  play  the  part  of  the  serene 
and  trusting  husband. 

In  the  small  hours  he  slipped  out  of  bed,  and  passing 
into  his  dressing-room,  leaned  by  the  open  window. 

He  could  hardly  breathe. 

A  night  four  years  ago  came  back  to  him — the  night 
but  one  before  his  marriage;  as  hot  and  stifling  as  this. 

He  remembered  how  he  had  lain  in  a  long  cane  chair 
in  the  window  of  his  sitting-room  off  Victoria  Street. 
Down  below  in  a  side  street  a  man  had  banged  at  a  door,  a 
woman  had  cried  out ;  he  remembered,  as  though  it  were 
now,  the  sound  of  the  scuffle,  the  slam  of  the  door,  the 
dead  silence  that  followed.  And  then  the  early  water- 


Bosinney  on  Parole  257 

cart,  cleansing  the  reek  of  the  streets,  had  approached 
through  the  strange-seeming  useless  lamplight;  he 
seemed  to  hear  again  its  rumble,  nearer  and  nearer,  till 
it  passed  and  slowly  died  away. 

He  leaned  far  out  of  the  dressing-room  window,  over 
the  little  court  below,  and  saw  the  first  light  spread. 
The  outlines  of  dark  walls  and  roofs  were  blurred  for  a 
moment,  then  came  out  sharper  than  before. 

He  remembered  how  that  other  night  he  had  watched 
the  lamps  paling  all  the  length  of  Victoria  Street;  how 
he  had  hurried  on  his  clothes  and  gone  down  into  the 
street,  down  past  houses  and  squares,  to  the  street  where 
she  was  staying,  and  there  had  stood  and  looked  at  the 
front  of  the  little  house,  as  still  and  grey  as  the  face  of  a 
dead  man. 

And  suddenly  it  shot  through  his  mind,  like  a  sick 
man's  fancy:  "What 's  he  doing? — that  fellow  who  haunts 
me,  who  was  here  this  evening,  who's  in  love  with  my 
wife— prowling  out  there,  perhaps,  looking  for  her  as  I 
know  he  was  looking  for  her  this  afternoon;  watching  my 
house  now,  for  all  I  can  tell!  " 

He  stole  across  the  landing  to  the  front  of  the  house, 
stealthily  drew  aside  a  blind,  and  raised  a  window. 

The  grey  light  clung  about  the  trees  of  the  square,  as 
though  Night,  like,  a  great  downy  moth,  had  brushed 
them  with  her  wings.  The  lamps  were  still  alight,  all 
pale,  but  not  a  soul  stirred — no  living  thing  in  sight! 

Yet  suddenly,  very  faint,  far  off  in  the  deathly  still- 
ness, he  heard  a  wailing  sound,  like  the  voice  of  some  wan- 
dering soul  barred  out  of  heaven,  and  crying  for  its 
happiness.  There  it  was  again — again!  Soames  shut  the 
window  shuddering. 

Then  he  thought:  "Ah!  it's  only  the  peacocks,  across 
the  water." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

JUNE    PAYS    SOME    CALLS 

OLD  JOLYON  stood  in  the  narrow  hall  at  Broad, 
stairs,  inhaling  that  odour  of  oil-cloth  and  her- 
rings which  permeates  all  respectable  seaside  lodging- 
houses.  On  a  chair — a  shiny  leather  chair,  displaying  its 
horse-hair  through  a  hole  in  the  top  left-hand  corner — 
stood  a  black  despatch  case.  This  he  was  filling  with 
papers,  with  the  Times,  and  a  bottle  of  eau-de-Cologne. 
He  had  meetings  that  day  of  the  Globular  Gold  Conces- 
sions and  the  New  Colliery  Company,  Limited,  to 
which  he  was  going  up,  for  he  never  missed  a  Board;  to 
"miss  a  Board  "  would  be  one  more  piece  of  evidence 
that  he  was  growing  old,  and  this  his  jealous  Forsyte 
spirit  could  not  bear. 

His  eyes,  as  he  filled  that  black  despatch  case,  looked 
as  if  at  any  moment  they  might  blaze  up  with  anger. 
So  gleams  the  eye  of  a  schoolboy,  baited  by  a  ring  of 
his  companions;  but  he  controls  himself,  deterred 
by  the  fearful  odds  against  him.  And  old  Jolyon  con- 
trolled himself,  keeping  down,  with  his  masterful  re- 
straint now  slowly  wearing  out,  the  irritation  fostered  in 
him  by  the  conditions  of  his  life. 

He  had  received  from  his  son  an  unpractical  letter,  in 
which  by  rambling  generalities  the  boy  seemed  trying  to 
get  out  of  answering  a  plain  question.  "  I ' ve  seen  Bosin- 
ney,"  he  said;  "he  is  not  a  criminal.  The  more  I  see 
of  people  the  more  I  am  convinced  that  they  are  never 

258 


June  Pays  Some  Calls  259 

good  or  bad — merely  comic,  or  pathetic.  You  probably 
don't  agree  with  me!" 

Old  Jolyon  did  not;  he  considered  it  cynical  to  so 
express  oneself ;  he  had  not  yet  reached  that  point  of  old 
age  when  even  Forsytes,  bereft  of  those  illusions  and 
principles  which  they  have  cherished  carefully  for 
practical  purposes  but  never  believed  in,  bereft  of  all 
corporeal  enjoyment,  stricken  to  the  very  heart  by 
having  nothing  left  to  hope  for,  break  through  the 
barriers  of  reserve  and  say  things  they  would  never  have 
believed  themselves  capable  of  saying. 

Perhaps  he  did  not  believe  in  "Goodness"  and  "Bad- 
ness" any  more  than  his  son;  but  as  he  would  have  said, 
he  didn't  know — couldn't  tell;  there  might  be  some- 
thing in  it;  and  why,  by  an  unnecessary  expression  of 
disbelief,  deprive  yourself  of  possible  advantage? 

Accustomed  to  spend  his  holidays  among  the  mountains, 
though  (like  a  true  Forsyte)  he  had  never  attempted 
anything  too  adventurous  or  too  foolhardy,  he  had  been 
passionately  fond  of  them.  And  when  the  wonderful 
view  (mentioned  in  Baedeker — "fatiguing but  repaying") 
was  disclosed  to  him  after  the  effort  of  the  climb,  he  had 
doubtless  felt  the  existence  of  some  great,  dignified 
principle  crowning  the  chaotic  strivings,  the  petty 
precipices,  and  ironic  little  dark  chasms  of  life.  This 
was  as  near  to  religion,  perhaps,  as  his  practical  spirit 
had  ever  gone. 

But  it  was  many  years  since  he  had  been  to  the 
mountains.  He  had  taken  June  there  two  seasons 
running,  after  his  wife  died,  and  had  realised  bitterly 
that  his  walking  days  were  over. 

To  that  old  mountain-given  confidence  in  a  supreme 
order  of  things  he  had  long  been  a  stranger. 

He  knew  himself  to  be  old,  yet  he  felt  young;  and  this 
troubled  him.  It  troubled  and  puzzled  him,  too,  to 


260  The  Man  of  Property 

think  that  he,  who  had  always  been  so  careful,  should 
be  father  and  grandfather  to  such  as  seemed  born  to 
disaster.  He  had  nothing  to  say  against  Jo — who  could 
say  anything  against  the  boy,  an  amiable  chap  ? — but  his 
position  was  deplorable,  and  this  business  of  June's 
nearly  as  bad.  It  seemed  like  a  fatality,  and  a  fatality 
was  one  of  those  things  no  man  of  his  character  could 
either  understand  or  put  up  with. 

In  writing  to  his  son  he  did  not  really  hope  that 
anything  would  come  of  it.  Since  the  ball  at  Roger's 
he  had  seen  too  clearly  how  the  land  lay — he  could  put 
two  and  two  together  quicker  than  most  men — and, 
with  the  example  of  his  own  son  before  his  eyes,  knew 
better  than  any  Forsyte  of  them  all  that  the  pale  flame 
singes  men 's  wings  whether  they  will  or  no. 

In  the  days  before  June's  engagement,  when  she  and 
Mrs.  Soames  were  always  together,  he  had  seen  enough  of 
Irene  to  feel  the  spell  she  cast  over  men.  She  was  not  a 
flirt,  not  even  a  coquette — words  dear  to  the  heart  of  his 
generation,  which  loved  to  define  things  by  a  good, 
broad,  adequate  word — but  she  was  dangerous.  He 
could  not  say  why.  Tell  him  of  a  quality  innate  in 
some  women — a  seductive  power  beyond  their  own 
control!  He  would  but  answer:  "Humbug!"  She  was 
dangerous,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it.  He  wanted 
to  close  his  eyes  to  that  affair.  If  it  was,  it  was;  he  did 
not  want  to  hear  any  more  about  it — he  only  wanted  to 
save  June's  position  and  her  peace  of  mind.  He  still 
hoped  she  might  once  more  become  a  comfort  to  himself. 

And  so  he  had  written.  He  got  little  enough  out  of  the 
answer.  As  to  what  young  Jolyon  had  made  of  the 
interview,  there  was  practically  only  the  queer  sentence: 
' '  I  gather  that  he 's  in  the  stream. ' '  The  stream !  What 
stream?  What  was  this  new-fangled  way  of  talking? 

He  sighed,  and  folded  the  last  of  the  papers  under 


June  Pays  Some  Calls  261 

the  flap  of  the  bag;  he  knew  well  enough  what  was 
meant. 

June  came  out  of  the  dining-room,  and  helped  him  on 
with  his  summer  coat.  From  her  costume,  and  the  ex- 
pression of  her  little  resolute  face,  he  saw  at  once  what 
was  coming. 

"  I  'm  going  with  you, "  she  said. 

"Nonsense,  my  dear;  I  go  straight  into  the  City.  I 
can't  have  you  racketing  about!" 

"I  must  see  old  Mrs.  Smeech." 

"Oh,  your  precious  'lame  ducks'!"  grumbled  out  old 
Jolyon.  He  did  not  believe  her  excuse,  but  ceased  his 
opposition.  There  was  no  doing  anything  with  that 
pertinacity  of  hers. 

At  Victoria  he  put  her  into  the  carriage  which  had  been 
ordered  for  himself — a  characteristic  action,  for  he  had 
no  petty  selfishnesses. 

"Now,  don't  you  go  tiring  yourself,  my  darling,"  he 
said,  and  took  a  cab  on  into  the  City. 

June  went  first  to  a  back-street  in  Paddington,  where 
Mrs.  Smeech,  her  "lame  duck,"  lived — an  aged  person, 
connected  with  the  charring  interest;  but  after  half  an 
hour  spent  in  hearing  her  habitually  lamentable  recital, 
and  dragooning  her  into  temporary  comfort,  she  went  on 
to  Stanhope  Gate.  The  great  house  was  closed  and  dark. 

She  had  decided  to  learn  something  at  all  costs.  It 
was  better  to  face  the  worst,  and  have  it  over.  And  this 
was  her  plan:  To  go  first  to  Phil's  aunt,  Mrs.  Baynes,  and 
failing  information  there,  to  Irene  herself.  She  had  no 
clear  notion  of  what  she  would  gain  by  these  visits. 

At  three  o'clock  she  was  in  Lowndes  Square.  With  a 
woman's  instinct  when  trouble  is  to  be  faced,  she  had 
put  on  her  best  frock,  and  went  to  the  battle  with  a  glance 
as  courageous  as  old  Jolyon's  itself.  Her  tremors  had 
passed  into  eagerness. 


262  The  Man  of  Property 

When  June  was  announced,  Mrs.  Baynes,  Bosinney's 
aunt  (Louisa  was  her  name) ,  was  in  her  kitchen  directing 
the  cook,  for  she  was  an  excellent  housewife,  and,  as 
Baynes  always  said,  there  was  "a  lot  in  a  good  dinner." 
He  did  his  best  work  after  dinner.  It  was  Baynes  who 
built  that  remarkably  fine  row  of  tall  crimson  houses  in 
Kensington  which  compete  with  so  many  others  for  the 
title  of  "the  ugliest  in  London." 

On  hearing  June's  name,  she  went  hurriedly  to  her 
bedroom,  and,  taking  two  large  bracelets  from  a  red 
morocco  case  in  a  locked  drawer,  put  them  on  her  white 
wrists,  for  she  possessed  in  a  remarkable  degree  that 
" sense  of  property,"  which,  as  we  know,  is  the  touch- 
stone of  Forsyteism,  and  the  foundation  of  good  morality. 

Her  figure,  of  medium  height  and  broad  build,  with  a 
tendency  to  embonpoint,  was  reflected  by  the  mirror  of 
her  white-wood  wardrobe,  in  a  gown  made  under  her  own 
organisation,  of  one  of  those  half-tints,  reminiscent  of 
the  distempered  walls  of  corridors  in  large  hotels.  She 
raised  her  hands  to  her  hair,  which  she  wore  a  la  Princesse 
de  Galles,  and  touched  it  here  and  there,  settling  it  more 
firmly  on  her  head,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  an  uncon- 
scious realism,  as  though  she  were  looking  in  the  face  one  of 
life's  sordid  facts,  and  making  the  best  of  it.  In  youth 
her  cheeks  had  been  of  cream  and  roses,  but  they  were 
mottled  now  by  middle-age,  and  again  that  hard,  ugly 
directness  came  into  her  eyes  as  she  dabbed  a  powder-puff 
across  her  forehead.  Putting  the  puff  down,  she  stood 
quite  still  before  the  glass,  arranging  a  smile  over  her 
high,  important,  nose,  her  chin  (never  large,  and  now 
growing  smaller  with  the  increase  of  her  neck) ,  her  thin- 
lipped,  down-drooping  mouth.  Quickly,  not  to  lose  the 
effect,  she  grasped  her  skirts  strongly  in  both  hands,  and 
went  down-stairs. 

She  had  been  hoping  for  this  visit  for  some  time  past. 


June  Pays  Some  Calls  263 

Whispers  had  reached  her  that  things  were  not  all  right 
between  her  nephew  and  his  fiancee.  Neither  of  them 
had  been  near  her  for  weeks.  She  had  asked  Phil 
to  dinner  many  times;  his  invariable  answer  had  been 
"Too  busy." 

Her  instinct  was  alarmed,  and  the  instinct  in  such 
matters  of  this  excellent  woman  was  keen.  She  ought 
to  have  been  a  Forsyte;  in  young  Jolyon's  sense  of  the 
word,  she  certainly  had  that  privilege,  and  merits 
description  as  such. 

She  had  married  off  her  three  daughters  in  a  way  that 
people  said  was  beyond  their  deserts,  for  they  had  the 
professional  plainness  only  to  be  found,  as  a  rule,  among 
the  female  kind  of  the  more  legal  callings.  Her  name 
was  upon  the  committees  of  numberless  charities  con- 
nected with  the  Church — dances,  theatricals,  or  bazaars 
— and  she  never  lent  her  name  unless  sure  beforehand 
that  everything  had  been  thoroughly  organised. 

She  believed,  as  she  often  said,  in  putting  things  on  a 
commercial  basis;  the  proper  function  of  the  Church,  of 
charity,  indeed,  of  everything,  was  to  strengthen  the 
fabric  of  "Society."  Individual  action,  therefore,  she 
considered  immoral.  Organisation  was  the  only  thing, 
for  by  organisation  alone  could  you  feel  sure  that  you 
were  getting  a  return  for  your  money.  Organisation — 
and  again,  organisation!  And  there  is  no  doubt  that  she 
was  what  old  Jolyon  called  her — "  a  '  dab '  at  that " — he 
went  further,  he  called  her  "  a  humbug." 

The  enterprises  to  which  she  lent  her  name  were  organ- 
ised so  admirably  that  by  the  time  the  takings  were 
handed  over,  they  were  indeed  skim-milk  divested  of  all 
cream  of  human  kindness.  But  as  she  often  justly 
remarked,  sentiment  was  to  be  deprecated.  She  was, 
in  fact,  a  little  academic. 

This  great  and  good  woman,  so  highly  thought  of  in 


264  The  Man  of  Property 

ecclesiastical  circles,  was  one  of  the  principal  priestesses 
in  the  temple  of  Forsyteism,  keeping  alive  day  and  night 
a  sacred  flame  to  the  God  of  Property,  whose  altar  is 
inscribed  with  those  inspiring  words:  "Nothing  for 
nothing,  and  really  remarkably  little  for  sixpence." 

When  she  entered  a  room  it  was  felt  that  something 
substantial  had  come  in,  which  was  probably  the 
reason  of  her  popularity  as  a  patroness.  People  liked 
something  substantial  when  they  had  paid  money  for  it ; 
and  they  would  look  at  her — surrounded  by  her  staff  in 
charity  ballrooms,  with  her  high  nose  and  her  broad, 
square  figure,  attired  in  an  uniform  covered  with  sequins 
— as  though  she  were  a  general. 

The  only  thing  against  her  was  that  she  had  not  a 
double  name.  She  was  a  power  in  upper-middle  class 
society,  with  its  hundred  sets  and  circles,  all  intersecting 
on  the  common  battle-field  of  charity  functions,  and  on 
that  battle-field  brushing  skirts  so  pleasantly  with  the 
skirts  of  Society  with  the  capital ' '  S. "  She  was  a  power 
in  society  with  the  smaller  "s,"  that  larger,  more  signifi- 
cant, and  more  powerful  body,  where  the  commercially 
Christian  institutions,  maxims,  and  "principle"  which 
Mrs.  Baynes  embodied,  were  real  life-blood,  circulating 
freely,  real  business  currency,  not  merely  the  sterilised 
imitation  that  flowed  in  the  veins  of  smaller  Society  with 
the  larger  "S. "  People  who  knew  her  felt  her  to  be 
sound — a  sound  woman,  who  never  gave  herself  away, 
nor  anything  else,  if  she  could  possibly  help  it. 

She  had  been  on  the  worst  sort  of  terms  with  Bosinney's 
father,  who  had  not  infrequently  made  her  the  object  of 
an  unpardonable  ridicule.  She  alluded  to  him  now  that 
he  was  gone  as  her  "poor,  dear,  irreverent  brother." 

She  greeted  June  with  the  careful  effusion  of  which  she 
was  a  mistress,  a  little  afraid  of  her  as  far  as  a  woman  of 
her  eminence  in  the  commercial  and  Christian  world  could 


June  Pays  Some  Calls  265 

be  afraid — for  so  slight  a  girl  June  had  a  great  dignity, 
the  fearlessness  of  her  eyes  gave  her  that.  And  Mrs. 
Baynes,  too,  shrewdly  recognised  that  behind  the  un- 
compromising frankness  of  June's  manner  there  was 
much  of  the  Forsyte.  If  the  girl  had  been  merely  frank 
and  courageous,  Mrs.  Baynes  would  have  thought  her 
"cranky,"  and  despised  her;  if  she  had  been  merely  a 
Forsyte, like  Francie — let  us  say, — she  would  have  patron- 
ised her  from  sheer -weight  of  metal;  but  June,  small 
though  she  was — Mrs.  Baynes  habitually  admired  quan- 
tity,— gave  her  an  uneasy  feeling;  and  she  placed  her  in 
a  chair  opposite  the  light. 

There  was  another  reason  for  her  respect — which 
Mrs.  Baynes,  too  good  a  churchwoman  to  be  worldly, 
would  have  been  the  last  to  admit — she  often  heard  her 
husband  describe  old  Jolyon  as  extremely  well  off,  and 
was  biassed  towards  his  grand-daughter  for  the  soundest 
of  all  reasons.  To-day  she  felt  the  emotion  with  which 
we  read  a  novel  describing  a  hero  and  an  inheritance, 
nervously  anxious  lest,  by  some  frightful  lapse  of  the 
novelist,  the  young  man  should  be  left  without  it  at  the 
end. 

Her  manner  was  warm;  she  had  never  seen  so 
clearly  before  how  distinguished  and  desirable  a  girl 
this  was.  She  asked  after  old  Jolyon 's  health.  A 
wonderful  man  for  his  age ;  so  upright,  and  young  looking, 
and  how  old  was  he?  Eighty-one!  She  would  never 
have  thought  it !  They  were  at  the  sea !  Very  nice  for 
them;  she  supposed  June  heard  from  Phil  every  day? 
Her  light  grey  eyes  became  more  prominent  as  she  asked 
this  question;  but  the  girl  met  the  glance  without 
flinching. 

"No,"  she  said,  "he  never  writes!" 

Mrs.  Baynes 's  eyes  dropped;  they  had  no  intention 
of  doing  so,  but  they  did.  They  recovered  immediately. 


266  The  Man  of  Property 

"Of  course  not.  That's  Phil  all  over — he  was  always 
like  that!" 

"Was  he?  "said  June. 

The  brevity  of  the  answer  caused  Mrs.  Baynes's 
bright  smile  a  moment's  hesitation;  she  disguised  it 
by  a  quick  movement,  and  spreading  her  skirts  afresh, 
said:  "Why,  my  dear — he's  quite  the  most  harum- 
scarum  person;  one  never  pays  the  slightest  attention 
to  what  he  does!" 

The  conviction  came  suddenly  to  June  that  she  was 
wasting  her  time ;  even  were  she  to  put  a  question  point- 
blank,  she  would  never  get  anything  out  of  this  woman. 

"Do  you  see  him?"  she  asked,  her  face  crimsoning. 

The  perspiration  broke  out  on  Mrs.  Baynes's  forehead 
beneath  the  powder. 

' '  Oh,  yes !  I  don 't  remember  when  he  was  here  last — 
indeed,  we  have  n't  seen  much  of  him  lately.  He's  so 
busy  with  your  cousin's  house;  I  'm  told  it  '11  be  finished 
directly.  We  must  organise  a  little  dinner  to  cele- 
brate the  event;  do  come  and  stay  the  night  with 
us!" 

"Thank  you,"  said  June.  Again  she  thought:  "I'm 
only  wasting  my  time .  This  woman  will  tell  me  nothing . ' ' 

She  got  up  to  go.  A  change  came  over  Mrs.  Baynes. 
She  rose  too;  her  lips  twitched,  she  fidgeted  her  hands. 
Something  was  evidently  very  wrong,  and  she  did  not 
dare  to  ask  this  girl,  who  stood  there,  a  slim,  straight 
little  figure,  with  her  decided  face,  her  set  jaw,  and 
resentful  eyes.  She  was  not  accustomed  to  be  afraid  of 
asking  questions — all  organisation  was  based  on  the 
asking  of  questions! 

But  the  issue  was  so  grave  that  her  nerve,  normally 
strong,  was  fairly  shaken;  only  that  morning  her  husband 
had  said:  "Old  Mr.  Forsyte  must  be  worth  well  over  a 
hundred  thousand  pounds! " 


June  Pays  Some  Calls  267 

And  this  girl  stood  there,  holding  out  her  hand — hold- 
ing out  her  hand ! 

The  chance  might  be  slipping  away — she  could  n  't  tell 
— the  chance  of  keeping  her  in  the  family,  and  yet  she 
dared  not  speak. 

Her  eyes  followed  June  to  the  door. 

It  closed. 

Then  with  an  exclamation  Mrs.  Baynes  ran  forward, 
wobbling  her  bulky  frame  from  side  to  side,  and  opened 
the  door  again. 

Too  late!  She  heard  the  front  door  click,  and  stood 
still,  an  expression  of  real  anger  and  mortification  on  her 
face. 

June  went  along  the  Square  with  her  bird-like  quick- 
ness. She  detested  that  woman  now — whom  in  happier 
days  she  had  been  accustomed  to  think  so  kind.  Was 
she  always  to  be  put  off  thus,  and  forced  to  undergo  this 
torturing  suspense  ? 

She  would  go  to  Phil  himself,  and  ask  him  what  he 
meant.  She  had  the  right  to  know.  She  hurried  on 
down  Sloane  Street  till  she  came  to  Bosinney  's  number. 
Passing  the  swing-door  at  the  bottom,  she  ran  up  the 
stairs,  her  heart  thumping  painfully. 

At  the  top  of  the  third  flight  she  paused  for  breath, 
and  holding  on  to  the  banisters,  stood  listening.  No 
sound  came  from  above. 

With  a  very  white  face  she  mounted  the  last  flight. 
She  saw  the  door,  with  his  name  on  the  plate.  And  the 
resolution  that  had  brought  her  so  far  evaporated. 

The  full  meaning  of  her  conduct  came  to  her.  She 
felt  hot  all  over;  the  palms  of  her  hands  were  moist 
beneath  the  thin  silk  covering  of  her  gloves. 

She  drew  back  to  the  stairs,  but  did  not  descend. 
Leaning  against  the  rail  she  tried  to  get  rid  of  a  feeling 
of  being  choked;  and  she  gazed  at  the  door  with  a  sort 


268  The  Man  of  Property 

of  dreadful  courage.  No!  she  refused  to  go  down.  Did 
it  matter  what  people  thought  of  her  ?  They  would  never 
know !  No  one  would  help  her  if  she  did  not  help  herself  ! 
She  would  go  through  with  it. 

Forcing  herself,  therefore,  to  leave  the  support  of  the 
wall,  she  rang  the  bell.  The  door  did  not  open,  and  all 
her  shame  and  fear  suddenly  abandoned  her;  she  rang 
again  and  again,  as  though  in  spite  of  its  emptiness  she 
could  drag  some  response  out  of  that  closed  room,  some 
recompense  for  the  shame  and  fear  that  visit  had  cost 
her.  It  did  not  open;  she  left  off  ringing,  and,  sitting 
down  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Presently  she  stole  down,  out  into  the  air.  She  felt 
as  though  she  had  passed  through  a  bad  illness,  and  had 
no  desire  now  but  to  get  home  as  quick  as  she  could. 
The  people  she  met  seemed  to  know  where  she  had 
been,  what  she  had  been  doing;  and  suddenly — over  on 
the  opposite  side,  going  towards  his  rooms  from  the 
direction  of  Montpellier  Square — she  saw  Bosinney 
himself. 

She  made  a  movement  to  cross  into  the  traffic.  Their 
eyes  met,  and  he  raised  his  hat.  An  omnibus  passed, 
obscuring  her  view;  then,  from  the  edge  of  the  pavement, 
through  a  gap  in  the  traffic,  she  saw  him  walking  on. 

And  June  stood  motionless,  looking  after  him. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

PERFECTION  OF  THE  HOUSE 

^/""XNE  mock- turtle,  clear;  one  ox-tail;  two  glasses  of 

\J     port." 

In  the  upper  room  at  French's,  where  a  Forsyte 
could  still  get  heavy  English  food,  James  and  his  son  were 
sitting  down  to  lunch. 

Of  all  eating-places  James  liked  best  to  come  here; 
there  was  something  unpretentious,  well-flavoured,  and 
filling  about  it,  and  though  he  had  been  to  a  certain 
extent  corrupted  by  the  necessity  for  being  fashionable, 
and  the  trend  of  habits  keeping  pace  with  an  income 
that  would  increase,  he  still  hankered  in  quiet  City 
moments  after  the  tasty  flesh-pots  of  his  earlier  days. 
Here  you  were  served  by  hairy  English  waiters  in  aprons; 
there  was  sawdust  on  the  floor,  and  three  round  gilt 
looking-glasses  hung  just  above  the  line  of  sight.  They 
had  only  recently  done  away  with  the  cubicles,  too,  in 
which  you  could  have  your  chop,  prime  chump,  with  a 
floury  potato,  without  seeing  your  neighbours,  like  a 
gentleman. 

He  tucked  the  top  corner  of  his  napkin  behind  the 
third  button  of  his  waistcoat,  a  practice  he  had  been 
obliged  to  abandon  years  ago  in  the  West  End.  He 
felt  that  he  should  relish  his  soup — the  entire  morning 
had  been  given  to  winding  up  the  estate  of  an  old  friend. 

After  filling  his  mouth  with  household  bread,  stale,  he 
at  once  began:  "How  are  you  going  down  to  Robin  Hill? 

269 


270  The  Man  of  Property 

You  going  to  take  Irene?  You'd  better  take  her.  I 
should  think  there  '11  be  a  lot  that  '11  want  seeing  to.'* 

Without  looking  up,Soames  answered:  "  She  won 't  go." 

"Won't  go?  What's  the  meaning  of  that?  She's 
going  to  live  in  the  house,  isn't  she?" 

Soames  made  no  reply. 

"I  don't  know  what's  coming  to  women  nowadays," 
mumbled  James ;  "  I  never  used  to  have  any  trouble  with 
them.  She 's  had  too  much  liberty.  She 's  spoiled " 

Soames  lifted  his  eyes:  "I  won't  have  anything  said 
against  her,"  he  said  unexpectedly. 

The  silence  was  only  broken  now  by  the  supping  of 
James's  soup. 

The  waiter  brought  the  two  glasses  of  port,  but  Soames 
stopped  him. 

"That's  not  the  way  to  serve  port,"  he  said;  "take 
them  away,  and  bring  the  bottle." 

Rousing  himself  from  his  reverie  over  the  soup,  James 
took  one  of  his  rapid  shifting  surveys  of  surrounding 
facts. 

"Your  mother  's  in  bed,"  he  said;  "you  can  have  the 
carriage  to  take  you  down.  I  should  think  Irene  'd  like 
the  drive.  This  young  Bosinney'll  be  there,  I  suppose, 
to  show  you  over?" 

Soames  nodded. 

"I  should  like  to  go  and  see  for  myself  what  sort  of 
a  job  he's  made  finishing  off,"  pursued  James.  "I'll 
just  drive  round  and  pick  you  both  up." 

"I  am  going  down  by  train,"  replied  Soames.  "If 
you'd  like  to  drive  round  and  see,  Irene  might  go  with 
you,  I  can't  tell." 

He  signed  to  the  waiter  to  bring  the  bill,  which  James 
paid. 

They  parted  at  St.  Paul 's,  Soames  branching  off  to  the 
station,  James  taking  his  omnibus  westwards. 


Perfection  of  the  House  271 

He  had  secured  the  corner  seat  next  the  conductor, 
where  his  long  legs  made  it  difficult  for  any  one  to  get  in, 
and  at  all  who  passed  him  he  looked  resentfully,  as  if 
they  had  no  business  to  be  using  up  his  air. 

He  intended  to  take  an  opportunity  this  afternoon  of 
speaking  to  Irene.  A  word  in  time  saved  nine ;  and  now 
that  she  was  going  to  live  in  the  country  there  was  a 
chance  for  her  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf  1  He  could  see 
that  Soames  wouldn't  stand  very  much  more  of  her 
goings  on! 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  define  what  he  meant  by  her 
"  goings  on  " ;  the  expression  was  wide,  vague,  and  suited 
to  a  Forsyte.  And  James  had  more  than  his  common 
share  of  courage  after  lunch. 

On  reaching  home,  he  ordered  out  the  barouche,  with 
special  instructions  that  the  groom  was  to  go  too.  He 
wished  to  be  kind  to  her,  and  to  give  her  every 
chance. 

When  the  door  of  No.  62  was  opened  he  could  distinctly 
hear  her  singing,  and  said  so  at  once,  to  prevent  any 
chance  of  being  denied  entrance. 

Yes,  Mrs.  Soames  was  in,  but  the  maid  did  not  know 
if  she  was  seeing  people. 

James,  moving  with  the  rapidity  that  ever  astonished 
the  observers  of  his  long  figure  and  absorbed  expression, 
went  forthwith  into  the  drawing-room  without  permit- 
ting this  to  be  ascertained.  He  found  Irene  seated  at 
the  piano  with  her  hands  arrested  on  the  keys,  evidently 
listening  to  the  voices  in  the  hall.  She  greeted  him  with- 
out smiling. 

"Your  mother-in-law's  in  bed,"  he  began,  hoping  at 
once  to  enlist  her  sympathy.  "I've  got  the  carriage 
here.  Now,  be  a  good  girl,  and  put  on  your  hat  and 
come  with  me  for  a  drive.  It  '11  do  you  good!  " 

Irene  looked  at  him  as  though  about  to  refuse,  but, 


272  The  Man  of  Property 

seeming  to  change  her  mind,  went  up-stairs,  and  came 
down  again  with  her  hat  on. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  take  me? "  she  asked. 

"We'll  just  go  down  to  Robin  Hill,"  said  James, 
spluttering  out  his  words  very  quick;  "the  horses  want 
exercise,  and  I  should  like  to  see  what  they've  been 
doing  down  there." 

Irene  hung  back,  but  again  changed  her  mind,  and 
went  out  to  the  carriage,  James  brooding  over  her 
closely,  to  make  quite  sure. 

It  was  not  before  he  had  got  her  more  than  half-way 
that  he  began:  "Soames  is  very  fond  of  you — he  won't 
have  anything  said  against  you;  why  don't  you  show 
him  more  affection?" 

Irene  flushed,  and  said  in  a  low  voice:  "I  can't  show 
what  I  haven't  got." 

James  looked  at  her  sharply;  he  felt  that  now  he  had 
her  in  his  own  carriage,  with  his  own  horses  and  servants, 
he  was  really  in  command  of  the  situation.  She  could 
not  put  him  off;  nor  would  she  make  a  scene  in  public. 

"  I  can 't  think  what  you  're  about, "  he  said.  "  He 's  a 
very  good  husband  !  " 

Irene's  answer  was  so  low  as  to  be  almost  inaudible 
among  the  sounds  of  traffic.  He  caught  the  words: 
"You  are  not  married  to  him!  " 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  He's  given  you 
everything  you  want.  He's  always  ready  to  take  you 
anywhere,  and  now  he's  built  you  this  house  in  the 
country.  It's  not  as  if  you  had  anything  of  your  own." 

"No." 

Again  James  looked  at  her ;  he  could  not  make  out  the 
expression  on  her  face.  She  looked  almost  as  if  she  were 
going  to  cry,  and  yet 

"  I  'm  sure, "  he  muttered  hastily,  "  we  've  all  tried  to  be 
kind  to  you." 


Perfection  of  the  House  273 

Irene 's  lips  quivered ;  to  his  dismay  James  saw  a  tear 
steal  down  her  cheek.  He  felt  a  choke  rise  in  his  own 
throat. 

"We're  all  fond  of  you,"  he  said,  "if  you'd  only — " 
he  was  going  to  say  "behave  yourself, "  but  changed  it  to 
"if  you'd  only  be  more  of  a  wife  to  him." 

Irene  did  not  answer,  and  James,  too,  ceased  speaking. 
There  was  something  in  her  silence  which  disconcerted 
him;  it  was  not  the  silence  of  obstinacy,  rather  that  of 
acquiescence  in  all  that  he  could  find  to  say.  And  yet 
he  felt  as  if  he  had  not  had  the  last  word.  He  could  not 
understand  this. 

He  was  unable,  however,  to  long  keep  silence. 

"I  suppose  that  young  Bosinney, "  he  said,  "will  be 
getting  married  to  June  now?" 

Irene's  face  changed.  ' '  I  don 't  know, ' '  she  said ;  ' '  you 
should  ask  her." 

"Does  she  write  to  you?" 

"No." 

"How's  that?"  said  James.  "I  thought  you  and  she 
were  such  great  friends." 

Irene  turned  on  him.  "Again, "  she  said,  "you  should 
ask  her!" 

"Well,"  flustered  James,  frightened  by  her  look,  "it's 
very  odd  that  I  can't  get  a  plain  answer  to  a  plain 
question,  but  there  it  is." 

He  sat  ruminating  over  his  rebuff,  and  burst  out  at  last : 

"Well,  I've  warned  you.  You  won't  look  ahead. 
Soames  he  does  n  't  say  much, but  I  can  see  he  won 't  stand 
a  great  deal  more  of  this  sort  of  thing.  You'll  have 
nobody  but  yourself  to  blame,  and,  what's  more,  you'll 
get  no  sympathy  from  anybody." 

Irene  bent  her  head  with  a  little  smiling  bow.  "I  am 
very  much  obliged  to  you." 

James  did  not  know  what  on  earth  to  answer. 
18 


274  The  Man  of  Property 

The  bright  hot  morning  had  changed  slowly  to  a  grey, 
oppressive  afternoon ;  a  heavy  bank  of  clouds,  with  the 
yellow  tinge  of  coming  thunder,  had  risen  in  the  south, 
and  was  creeping  up.  The  branches  of  the  trees  drooped 
motionless  across  the  road  without  the  smallest  stir  of 
foliage.  A  faint  odour  of  glue  from  the  heated  horses 
clung  in  the  thick  air;  the  coachman  and  groom,  rigid 
and  unbending,  exchanged  stealthy  murmurs  on  the  box, 
without  ever  turning  their  heads. 

To  James 's  great  relief  they  reached  the  house  at  last ; 
the  silence  and  impenetrability  of  this  woman  by  his  side, 
whom  he  had  always  thought  so  soft  and  mild,  alarmed 
him. 

The  carriage  put  them  down  at  the  door,  and  they 
entered. 

The  hall  was  cool,  and  so  still  that  it  was  like  passing 
into  a  tomb;  a  shudder  ran  down  James's  spine.  He 
quickly  lifted  the  heavy  leather  curtains  between  the 
columns  into  the  inner  court. 

He  could  not  restrain  an  exclamation  of  approval. 

The  decoration  was  really  in  excellent  taste.  The  dull 
ruby  tiles  that  extended  from  the  foot  of  the  walls  to  the 
verge  of  a  circular  clump  of  tall  iris  plants,  surrounding 
in  turn  a  sunken  basin  of  white  marble  filled  with  water, 
were  obviously  of  the  best  quality.  He  admired  ex- 
tremely the  purple  leather  curtains  drawn  along  one 
entire  side,  framing  a  huge  white-tiled  stove.  The 
central  partitions  of  the  skylight  had  been  slid  back, 
and  the  warm  air  from  outside  penetrated  into  the  very 
heart  of  the  house. 

He  stood,  his  hands  behind  him,  his  head  bent  back  on 
his  high,  narrow  shoulders,  spying  the  tracery  on  the 
columns  and  the  pattern  of  the  frieze  which  ran  round 
the  ivory-coloured  walls  under  the  gallery.  Evidently, 
no  pains  had  been  spared.  It  was  quite  the  house  of  a 


Perfection  of  the  House  275 

gentleman.  He  went  up  to  the  curtains,  and,  having 
discovered  how  they  were  worked,  drew  them  asunder 
and  disclosed  the  picture-gallery,  ending  in  a  great 
window  taking  up  the  whole  end  of  the  room.  It  had  a 
black  oak  floor,  and  its  walls,  again,  were  of  ivory  white. 
He  went  on  throwing  open  doors,  and  peeping  in.  Every- 
thing was  in  apple-pie  order,  ready  for  immediate 
occupation. 

He  turned  round  at  last  to  speak  to  Irene,  and  saw  her 
standing  over  in  the  garden  entrance,  with  her  husband 
and  Bosinney. 

Though  not  remarkable  for  sensibility,  James  felt  at 
once  that  something  was  wrong.  He  went  up  to  them, 
and,  vaguely  alarmed,  ignorant  of  the  nature  of  the 
trouble,  made  an  attempt  to  smooth  things  over. 

"How  are  you,  Mr.  Bosinney?"  he  said,  holding  out 
his  hand.  "You've  been  spending  money  pretty  freely 
down  here,  I  should  say! " 

Soames  turned  his  back,  and  walked  away.     James 
looked  from  Bosinney's  frowning  face  to  Irene,  and,  in 
his  agitation,  spoke  his  thoughts  aloud:    "Well,  I  can't 
tell  what's  the  matter.     Nobody  tells  me  anything!' 
And,  making  off  after  his  son,  he  heard  Bosinney's  short 

laugh,  and  his  "Well,  thank  God!     You  look  so " 

Most  unfortunately  he  lost  the  rest. 

What  had  happened?  He  glanced  back.  Irene  was 
very  close  to  the  architect,  and  her  face  not  like  the  face 
he  knew  of  her.  He  hastened  up  to  his  son. 

Soames  was  pacing  the  picture-gallery. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  James.  "What's  all 
this?" 

Soames   looked   at   him   with   his   supercilious   calm 
unbroken,   but  James  knew  well  enough  that  he   was 
violently  angry. 
.     "Our  friend,"  he  said,  "has  exceeded  his  instructions 


276  The  Man  of  Property 

again,  that's  all.  So  much  the  worse  for  him  this 
time." 

He  turned  round  and  walked  back  towards  the  door. 
James  followed  hurriedly,  edging  himself  in  front.  He 
saw  Irene  take  her  finger  from  before  her  lips,  heard  her 
say  something  in  her  ordinary  voice,  and  began  to  speak 
before  he  reached  them: 

"There  's  a  storm  coming  on.  We'd  better  get  home. 
We  can't  take  you,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Bosinney?  No,  I 
suppose  not.  Then  good-bye! "  He  held  out  his  hand. 
Bosinney  did  not  take  it,  but,  turning  with  a  laugh,  said: 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Forsyte.  Don't  get  caught  in  the 
storm! "  and  walked  away. 

"Well,"  began  James,  "I  don't  know " 

But  the  sight  of  Irene's  face  stopped  him.  Taking 
hold  of  his  daughter-in-law  by  the  elbow,  he  escorted 
her  towards  the  carriage.  He  felt  certain,  quite  cer- 
tain, they  had  been  making  some  appointment  or 
other. 

Nothing  in  this  world  is  more  sure  to  upset  a  Forsyte 
than  the  discovery  that  something  on  which  he  has 
stipulated  to  spend  a  certain  sum  has  cost  more.  And 
this  is  reasonable,  for  upon  the  accuracy  of  his  estimates 
the  whole  policy  of  his  life  is  ordered.  If  he  cannot  rely 
on  definite  values  of  property,  his  compass  is  amiss; 
he  is  adrift  upon  bitter  waters  without  a  helm. 

After  writing  to  Bosinney  in  the  terms  that  have 
already  been  chronicled,  Soames  had  dismissed  the  cost  of 
the  house  from  his  mind.  He  believed  that  he  had  made 
the  matter  of  the  final  cost  so  very  plain  that  the  pos- 
sibility of  its  being  again  exceeded  had  really  never 
entered  his  head.  On  hearing  from  Bosinney  that  his 
limit  of  twelve  thousand  pounds  would  be  exceeded  by 
something  like  four  hundred,  he  had  grown  white  with 
anger.  His  original  estimate  of  the  cost  of  the  house 


Perfection  of  the  House  277 

completed  had  been  ten  thousand  pounds,  and  he  had 
often  blamed  himself  severely  for  allowing  himself  to 
be  led  into  repeated  excesses.  Over  this  last  expendi- 
ture, however,  Bosinney  had  put  himself  completely  in 
the  wrong.  How  on  earth  a  fellow  could  make  such 
an  ass  of  himself  Soames  could  not  conceive;  but  he 
had  done  so,  and  all  the  rancour  and  hidden  jealousy 
that  had  been  burning  against  him  for  so  long  was  now 
focussed  in  rage  at  this  crowning  piece  of  extravagance. 
The  attitude  of  the  confident  and  friendly  husband  was 
gone.  To  preserve  property — his  wife — he  had  assumed 
it,  to  preserve  property  of  another  kind  he  lost  it 
now. 

"Ah!  "he  had  said  to  Bosinney  when  he  could  speak, 
"and  I  suppose  you're  perfectly  contented  with  your- 
self. But  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  you've  altogether 
mistaken  your  man!" 

What  he  meant  by  those  words  he  did  not  quite  know 
at  the  time,  but  after  dinner  he  looked  up  the  corre- 
spondence between  himself  and  Bosinney  to  make  quite 
sure.  There  could  be  no  two  opinions  about  it — the 
fellow  had  made  himself  liable  for  that  extra  four  hundred 
or,  at  all  events,  for  three  hundred  and  fifty  of  it,  and  he 
would  have  to  make  it  good. 

He  was  looking  at  his  wife 's  face  when  he  came  to  this 
conclusion.  Seated  in  her  usual  seat  on  the  sofa,  she 
was  altering  the  lace  on  a  collar.  She  had  not  once 
spoken  to  him  all  the  evening. 

He  went  up  to  the  mantelpiece,  and  contemplating  his 
face  in  the  mirror  said:  "Your  friend  the  Buccaneer  has 
made  a  fool  of  himself;  he  will  have  to  pay  for  it! " 

She  looked  at  him  scornfully,  and  answered:  "I  don't 
know  what  you  are  talking  about! " 

' '  You  soon  will.  A  mere  trifle,  quite  beneath  your  con- 
tempt— four  hundred  pounds." 


2  78  The  Man  of  Property 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  are  going  to  make  him  pay 
that  towards  this  hateful  house?" 

"I  do." 

"And  you  know  he's  got  nothing?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  are  meaner  than  I  thought  you." 

Soames  turned  from  the  mirror,  and  unconsciously 
taking  a  china  cup  from  the  mantelpiece,  clasped  his 
hands  around  it,  as  though  praying.  He  saw  her  bosom 
rise  and  fall,  her  eyes  darkening  with  anger,  and  taking 
no  notice  of  the  taunt,  he  asked  quietly: 

"Are  you  carrying  on  a  flirtation  with  Bosinney?" 

"No,  I  am  not!" 

Her  eyes  met  his,  and  he  looked  away.  He  neither 
believed  nor  disbelieved  her,  but  he  knew  that  he  had 
made  a  mistake  in  asking;  he  never  had  known,  never 
would  know,  what  she  was  thinking.  The  sight  of  her 
inscrutable  face,  the  thought  of  all  the  hundreds  of 
evenings  he  had  seen  her  sitting  there  like  that,  soft  and 
passive,  but  so  unreadable,  unknown,  enraged  him  be- 
yond measure. 

"I  believe  you  are  made  of  stone,"  he  said,  clenching 
his  fingers  so  hard  that  he  broke  the  fragile  cup.  The 
pieces  fell  into  the  grate  and  Irene  smiled. 

"You  seem  to  forget,"  she  said,  "that  cup  is  not!" 

Soames  gripped  her  arm.  "A  good  beating, "  he  said, 
"is  the  only  thing  that  would  bring  you  to  your  senses, " 
and  turning  on  his  heel,  he  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

SOAMES  SITS  ON  THE  STAIRS 

S GAMES  went  up-stairs  that  night  with  the  feeling 
that  he  had  gone  too  far.      He  was  prepared  to 
offer  excuses  for  his  words. 

He  turned  out  the  gas  still  burning  in  the  passage 
outside  their  room.  Pausing,  with  his  hand  on  the  knob 
of  the  door,  he  tried  to  shape  his  apology,  for  he  had  no 
intention  of  letting  her  see  that  he  was  nervous. 

But  the  door  did  not  open,  nor  when  he  pulled  it  and 
turned  the  handle  firmly.  She  must  have  locked  it  for 
some  reason,  and  forgotten. 

Entering  his  dressing-room,  where  also  the  gas  was 
lighted  and  burning  low,  he  went  quickly  to  the  other  door. 
That  too  was  locked.  Then  he  noticed  that  the  camp  bed 
which  he  occasionally  used  was  prepared,  and  his  sleep- 
ing-suit laid  out  upon  it.  He  put  his  hand  up  to  his 
forehead,  and  brought  it  away  wet.  It  dawned  on  him 
that  he  was  barred  out. 

He  went  back  to  the  door,  and  rattling  the  handle 
stealthily,  called:  "Unlock  the  door,  do  you  hear. 
Unlock  the  door!" 

There  was  a  faint  rustling,  but  no  answer. 

"Do  you  hear?  Let  me  in  at  once — I  insist  on  being 
let  in!" 

He  could  catch  the  sound  of  her  breathing  close  to  the 
door,  like  the  breathing  of  a  creature  threatened  by 
danger. 

279 


The  Man  of  Property 

There  was  something  terrifying  in  this  inexorable 
silence,  in  the  impossibility  of  getting  at  her.  He  went 
back  to  the  other  door,  and  putting  his  whole  weight 
against  it,  tried  to  burst  it  open.  The  door  was  a  new 
one — he  had  had  them  renewed  himself,  in  readiness  for 
their  coming  in  after  the  honeymoon.  In  a  rage  he 
lifted  his  foot  to  kick  in  the  panel;  the  thought  of  the 
servants  restrained  him,  and  he  felt  suddenly  that  he 
was  beaten. 

Flinging  himself  down  in  the  dressing-room,  he  took 
up  a  book. 

But  instead  of  the  print  he  seemed  to  see  his  wife — 
with  her  yellow  hair  flowing  over  her  bare  shoulders, 
and  her  great  dark  eyes — standing  like  an  animal  at  bay. 
And  the  whole  meaning  of  her  act  of  revolt  came  to  him. 
She  meant  it  to  be  for  good. 

He  could  not  sit  still,  and  went  to  the  door  again.  He 
could  still  hear  her,  and  he  called:  "Irene!  Irene! " 

He  did  not  mean  to  make  his  voice  pathetic.  In 
ominous  answer,  the  faint  sounds  ceased.  He  stood 
with  clenched  hands,  thinking. 

Presently  he  stole  round  on  tiptoe,  and  running 
suddenly  at  the  other  door,  made  a  supreme  effort  to 
break  it  open.  It  creaked,  but  did  not  yield.  He  sat 
down  on  the  stairs  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  there  in  the  dark,  the  moon 
through  the  skylight  above  laying  a  pale  smear  that 
lengthened  slowly  towards  him  down  the  stairway.  He 
tried  to  be  philosophical. 

Since  she  had  locked  her  doors  she  had  no  further 
claim  as  a  wife,  and  he  would  console  himself  with  other 
women! 

It  was  but  a  spectral  journey  he  made  among  such 
delights — he  had  no  appetite  for  these  exploits.  He  had 
never  had  much,  and  he  had  lost  the  habit.  He  felt 


Soames  Sits  on  the  Stairs         281 

that  he  could  never  recover  it.  His  hunger  could  only  be 
appeased  by  his  wife,  inexorable  and  frightened,  behind 
these  shut  doors.  No  other  woman  could  help  him. 

This  conviction  came  to  him  with  terrible  force  out 
there  in  the  dark. 

His  philosophy  left  him;  and  surly  anger  took  its 
place.  Her  conduct  was  immoral,  inexcusable,  worthy 
of  any  punishment  within  his  power.  He  desired  no  one 
but  her,  and  she  refused  him ! 

She  must  really  hate  him,  then!  He  had  never  be- 
lieved it  yet.  He  did  not  believe  it  now.  It  seemed 
to  him  incredible.  He  felt  as  though  he  had  lost  for 
ever  his  power  of  judgment.  If  she,  so  soft  and  yielding 
as  he  had  always  judged  her,  could  take  this  decided 
step — what  could  not  happen? 

Then  he  asked  himself  again  if  she  were  carrying  on  an 
intrigue  with  Bosinney.  He  did  not  believe  that  she 
was;  he  could  not  afford  to  believe  such  a  reason  for 
her  conduct — the  thought  was  not  to  be  faced. 

It  would  be  unbearable  to  contemplate  the  necessity 
of  making  his  martial  relations  public  property.  Short 
of  the  most  convincing  proofs  he  must  still  refuse  to 
believe,  for  he  did  not  wish  to  punish  himself.  And  all 
the  time  at  heart — he  did  believe. 

The  moonlight  cast  a  greyish  tinge  over  his  figure 
hunched  against  the  staircase  wall. 

Bosinney  was  in  love  with  her!  He  hated  the  fellow, 
and  would  not  spare  him  now.  He  could  and  would 
refuse  to  pay  a  penny  piece  over  twelve  thousand  and 
fifty  pounds — the  extreme  limit  fixed  in  the  correspond- 
ence; or  rather  he  would  pay,  he  would  pay  and  sue 
him  for  damages.  He  would  go  to  Jobling  &  Boulter 
and  put  the  matter  in  their  hands.  He  would  ruin  the 
impecunious  beggar!  And  suddenly — though  what  con- 
nection between  the  thoughts! — he  reflected  that  Irene 


282  The  Man  of  Property 

had  no  money  either.  They  were  both  beggars.  This 
gave  him  a  strange  satisfaction. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  a  faint  creaking  through  the 
wall.  She  was  going  to  bed  at  last.  Ah!  Joy  and 
pleasant  dreams!  If  she  threw  the  door  open  wide  he 
would  not  go  in  now! 

But  his  lips,  that  were  twisted  in  a  bitter  smile, 
twitched;  he  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands. 

It  was  late  the  following  afternoon  when  Soames  stood 
in  the  dining-room  window  gazing  gloomily  into  the 
Square. 

The  sunlight  still  shone  on  the  plane-trees,  and  in 
the  breeze  their  gay  broad  leaves  shone  and  swung  in 
rhyme  to  a  barrel  organ  at  the  corner.  It  was  playing  a 
waltz,  an  old  waltz  that  was  out  of  fashion,  with  a  fateful 
rhythm  in  the  notes;  and  it  went  on  and  on,  though 
nothing  indeed  but  leaves  danced  to  the  tune. 

The  woman  did  not  look  too  gay,  for  she  was  tired ;  and 
from  the  tall  houses  no  one  threw  her  down  coppers.  She 
moved  the  organ  on,  and  three  doors  off  began  again. 

It  was  the  waltz  they  had  played  at  Roger's  when 
Irene  had  danced  with  Bosinney ;  and  the  perfume  of  the 
gardenias  she  had  worn  came  back  to  Soames,  drifted  by 
the  malicious  music,  as  it  had  been  drifted  to  him  then, 
when  she  passed,  her  hair  glistening,  her  eyes  so  soft, 
drawing  Bosinney  on  and  on  down  an  endless  ball-room. 

The  organ  woman  plied  her  handle  slowly;  she  had 
been  grinding  her  tune  all  day — grinding  it  in  Sloane 
Street  hard  by,  grinding  it  perhaps  to  Bosinney  himself. 

Soames  turned,  took  a  cigarette  from  the  carven  box, 
and  walked  back  to  the  window.  The  tune  had  mes- 
merised him,  and  there  came  into  his  view  Irene,  her 
sunshade  furled,  hastening  homewards  down  the  Square, 
in  a  soft,  rose-coloured  blouse  with  drooping  sleeves, 


Soames  Sits  on  the  Stairs          283 

that  he  did  not  know.  She  stopped  before  the  organ, 
took  out  her  purse,  and  gave  the  woman  money. 

Soames  shrank  back  and  stood  where  he  could  see 
into  the  hall. 

She  came  in  with  her  latch-key,  put  down  her  sun- 
shade, and  stood  looking  at  herself  in  the  glass.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed  as  if  the  sun  had  burned  them ;  her 
lips  were  parted  in  a  smile.  She  stretched  her  arms  out 
as  though  to  embrace  herself,  with  a  laugh  that  for  all 
the  world  was  like  a  sob. 

Soames  stepped  forward 

' '  Very — pretty ! "  he  said. 

But  as  though  shot  she  spun  rounu,  and  would  have 
passed  him  up  the  stairs.  He  barred  the  way. 

"Why  such  a  hurry? "  he  said,  and  his  eyes  fastened  on 
a  curl  of  hair  fallen  loose  across  her  ear. 

He  hardly  recognised  her.  She  seemed  on  fire,  so  deep 
and  rich  the  colour  of  her  cheeks,  her  eyes,  her  lips,  and  of 
the  unusual  blouse  she  wore. 

She  put  up  her  hand  and  smoothed  back  the  curl.  She 
was  breathing  fast  and  deep,  as  though  she  had  been 
running,  and  with  every  breath  perfume  seemed  to 
come  from  her  hair,  and  from  her  body,  like  perfume 
from  an  opening  flower. 

"I  don't  like  that  blouse,"  he  said  slowly,  "it's  a  soft, 
shapeless  thing!" 

He  lifted  his  finger  towards  her  breast,  but  she  dashed 
his  hand  aside. 

"Don 't  touch  me  ! "  she  cried. 

He  caught  her  wrist ;   she  wrenched  it  away. 

"And  where  may  you  have  been?"  he  asked. 

"In  heaven — out  of  this  house  !"  With  those  words 
she  fled  up-stairs. 

Outside — in  thanksgiving — at  the  very  door,  the  organ- 
grinder  was  playing  the  waltz. 


284  The  Man  of  Property 

And  Soames  stood  motionless.  What  prevented  him 
from  following  her? 

Was  it  that,  with  the  eyes  of  faith,  he  saw  Bosinney 
looking  down  from  that  high  window  in  Sloane  Street, 
straining  his  eyes  for  yet  another  glimpse  of  Irene's 
vanished  figure,  cooling  his  flushed  face,  dreaming  of  the 
moment  when  she  flung  herself  on  his  breast — the  scent 
of  her  still  in  the  air  around,  and  the  sound  of  her  laugh 
that  was  like  a  sob  ? 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
MRS.  MACANDER'S  EVIDENCE 

MANY  people,  no  doubt,  including  the  editor  of  the 
Ultra  Vivisectionist,  then  in  the  bloom  of   its 
first  youth,  would  say  that  Soames  was  less  than  a 
man  not  to  have  removed  the  locks  from  his  wife 's  doors, 
and  after  beating  her  soundly  resumed  wedded  happiness. 

Brutality  is  not  so  deplorably  diluted  by  humaneness  as 
it  used  to  be,  yet  a  sentimental  segment  of  the  population 
may  still  be  relieved  to  learn  that  he  did  none  of  these 
things.  For  active  brutality  is  not  popular  with  For- 
sytes; they  are  too  circumspect,  and,  on  the  whole,  too 
soft-hearted.  And  in  Soames  there  was  some  common 
pride,  not  sufficient  to  make  him  do  a  really  generous 
action,  but  enough  to  prevent  his  indulging  in  an  ex- 
tremely mean  one,  except,  perhaps,  in  very  hot  blood. 
Above  all  this  true  Forsyte  refused  to  feel  himself  ridicu- 
lous. Short  of  actually  beating  his  wife,  he  perceived 
nothing  to  be  done;  he  therefore  accepted  the  situation 
without  another  word. 

Throughout  the  summer  and  autumn  he  continued  to 
go  to  the  office,  to  sort  his  pictures,  and  ask  his  friends 
to  dinner. 

He  did  not  leave  town ;  Irene  refused  to  go  away.  The 
house  at  Robin  Hill,  finished  though  it  was,  remained 
empty  and  ownerless.  Soames  had  brought  a  suit 
against  the  Buccaneer,  in  which  he  claimed  from  him 
the  sum  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds. 

285 


286  The  Man  of  Property 

A  firm  of  solicitors,  Messrs.  Freak  &  Able,  had  put  in 
a  defence  on  Bosinney's  behalf.  Admitting  the  facts, 
they  raised  a  point  on  the  correspondence  which,  divested 
of  legal  phraseology,  amounted  to  this:  To  speak  of  "a 
jree  hand  in  the  terms  of  this  correspondence"  is  an 
Irish  bull. 

By  a  chance,  fortuitous  but  not  improbable  in  the 
close  borough  of  legal  circles,  a  good  deal  of  information 
came  to  Soames  's  ear  anent  this  line  of  policy,  the  working 
partner  in  his  firm,  Bustard,  happening  to  sit  next  at 
dinner  at  Walmisley's,  the  Taxing  Master,  to  young 
Chankery,  of  the  Common  Law  Bar. 

The  necessity  for  talking  what  is  known  as  "shop," 
which  comes  on  all  lawyers  with  the  removal  of  the  ladies, 
caused  Chankery,  a  young  and  promising  advocate,  to 
propound  an  impersonal  conundrum  to  his  neighbour, 
whose  name  he  did  not  know,  for,  seated  as  he  perman- 
ently was  in  the  background,  Bustard  had  practically 
no  name. 

He  had,  said  Chankery,  a  case  coming  on  with  a  "very 
nice  point."  He  then  explained,  preserving  every  pro- 
fessional discretion,  the  riddle  in  Soames 's  case.  Every 
one,  he  said,  to  whom  he  had  spoken,  thought  it  a  nice 
point.  The  issue  was  small  unfortunately,  "though 

d d  serious  for  his  client  he  believed" — Walmisley's 

champagne  was  bad  but  plentiful — a  judge  would  make 
short  work  of  it,  he  was  afraid.  He  intended  to  make  a 
big  effort — the  point  was  a  nice  one.  What  did  his 
neighbour  say  ? 

Bustard,  a  model  of  secrecy,  said  nothing.  He  re- 
lated the  incident  to  Soames  however,  with  some  malice, 
for  this  quiet  man  was  capable  of  human  feeling,  ending 
with  his  own  opinion  that  the  point  was ' '  a  very  nice  one." 

In  accordance  with  his  resolve,  our  Forsyte  had  put  his 


Mrs.  MacAnder's  Evidence         287 

interests  into  the  hands  of  Jobling  &  Boulter.  From 
the  moment  of  doing  so  he  regretted  that  he  had  not 
acted  for  himself.  On  receiving  a  copy  of  Bosinney's 
defence  he  went  over  to  their  offices. 

Boulter,  who  had  the  matter  in  hand,  Jobling  having 
died  some  years  before,  told  him  that  in  his  opinion  it 
Was  rather  a  nice  point;  he  would  like  counsel's  opinion 
on  it. 

Soames  told  him  to  go  to  a  good  man,  and  they  went  to 
Waterbuck,  Q.C.,  marking  him  ten  and  one,  who  kept 
the  papers  six  weeks  and  then  wrote  as  follows: 

"In  my  opinion  the  true  interpretation  of  this  corre- 
spondence depends  very  much  on  the  intention  of  the 
parties,  and  will  turn  upon  the  evidence  given  at  the 
trial.  I  am  of  opinion  that  an  attempt  should  be  made 
to  secure  from  the  architect  an  admission  that  he  under- 
stood he  was  not  to  spend  at  the  outside  more  than 
twelve  thousand  and  fifty  pounds.  With  regard  to  the 
expression,  '  a  free  hand  in  the  terms  of  this  correspond- 
ence,' to  which  my  attention  is  directed,  the  point  is  a 
nice  one;  but  I  am  of  opinion  that  upon  the  whole  the 
ruling  in  'Boileau  v.  The  Blasted  Cement  Co.,  Ltd./ 
will  apply." 

Upon  this  opinion  they  acted,  administering  interroga- 
tories, but  to  their  annoyance  Messrs.  Freak  &  Able 
answered  these  in  so  masterly  a  fashion  that  nothing 
whatever  was  admitted  and  that  without  prejudice. 

It  was  on  October  istthat  Soames  read  Waterbuck's 
opinion,  in  the  dining-room  before  dinner.  It  made  him 
nervous;  not  so  much  because  of  the  case  of  "Boileau  v. 
The  Blasted  Cement  Co.,  Ltd.,"  as  that  the  point  had 
lately  begun  to  seem  to  him,  too,  a  nice  one;  there  was 
about  it  just  that  pleasant  flavour  of  subtlety  so  at- 
tractive to  the  best  legal  appetites.  To  have  his  own 


288  The  Man  of  Property 

impression  confirmed  by  Waterbuck,  Q.C.,  would  have 
disturbed  any  man. 

He  sat  thinking  it  over,  and  staring  at  the  empty  grate, 
for  though  autumn  had  come,  the  weather  kept  as  glori- 
ously fine  that  year  as  though  it  were  still  high  August. 
It  was  not  pleasant  to  be  disturbed;  he  desired  too  pas- 
sionately to  set  his  foot  on  Bosinney's  neck. 

Though  he  had  not  seen  the  architect  since  the  last 
afternoon  at  Robin  Hill,  he  was  never  free  from  the  sense 
of  his  presence — never  free  from  the  memory  of  his  worn 
face  with  its  high  cheek-bones  and  enthusiastic  eyes.  It 
would  not  be  too  much  to  say  that  he  had  never  got  rid  ot 
the  feeling  of  that  night  when  he  heard  the  peacock's  cry 
at  dawn — the  feeling  that  Bosmney  haunted  the  house. 
And  every  man 's  shape  that  he  saw  in  the  dark  evenings 
walking  past  seemed  that  of  him  whom  George  had  so 
appropriately  named  the  Buccaneer. 

Irene  still  m3t  him,  he  was  certain;  where,  or  how, 
he  neither  knew,  nor  asked,  deterred  by  a  vague  and 
secret  dread  of  too  much  knowledge.  It  all  seemed  sub- 
terranean nowadays. 

Sometimes  when  he  questioned  his  wife  as  to  where  she 
had  been,  which  he  still  made  a  point  of  doing,  as  every 
Forsyte  should,  she  looked  very  strange.  Her  self- 
possession  was  wonderful,  but  there  were  moments  when, 
behind  the  mask  of  her  face,  inscrutable  as  it  had  always 
been  to  him,  lurked  an  expression  he  had  never  been  used 
to  see  there. 

She  had  taken  to  lunching  out  too;  when  he  asked 
Bilson  if  her  mistress  had  been  in  to  lunch,  as  often  as  not 
she  would  answer :  "  No ,  sir . " 

He  strongly  disapproved  of  her  gadding  about  by 
herself,  and  told  her  so.  But  she  took  no  notice.  There 
was  something  that  angered,  amazed,  yet  almost  amused 
him  about  the  calm  way  in  which  she  disregarded  his 


Mrs.  MacAnder's  Evidence  289 

wishes.  It  was  really  as  if  she  were  hugging  to  herself 
the  thought  of  a  triumph  over  him. 

He  rose  from  the  perusal  of  Waterbuck,  Q.C.'s  opinion, 
and,  going  up-stairs,  entered  her  room,  for  she  did  not 
lock  her  doors  till  bed-time — she  had  the  decency,  he 
found,  to  save  the  feelings  of  the  servants.  She  was 
brushing  her  hair,  and  turned  to  him  with  strange 
fierceness. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  said.  "Please  leave  my 
room!" 

He  answered:  "I  want  to  know  how  long  this  state  of 
things  between  us  is  to  last  ?  I  have  put  up  with  it  long 
enough." 

"Will  you  please  leave  my  room?" 

"Will  you  treat  me  as  your  husband?" 

"No." 

"Then,  I  shall  take  steps  to  make  you." 

"Do!" 

He  stared,  amazed  at  the  calmness  of  her  answer.  Her 
lips  were  compressed  in  a  thin  line ;  her  hair  lay  in  fluffy 
masses  on  her  bare  shoulders,  in  all  its  strange  golden  con- 
trast to  her  dark  eyes — those  eyes  alive  with  the  emotions 
of  fear,  hate,  contempt,  and  odd,  haunting  triumph. 

"Now,  please,  will  you  leave  my  room?" 

He  turned  round,  and  went  sulkily  out. 

He  knew  very  well  that  he  had  no  intention  of  taking 
steps,  and  he  saw  that  she  knew  too — knew  that  he  was 
afraid  to. 

It  was  a  habit  with  him  to  tell  her  the  doings  of  his  day: 
how  such  and  such  clients  had  called;  how  he  had  ar- 
ranged a  mortgage  for  Parkes;  how  that  long-standing 
suit  of  Fryer  v.  Forsyte  was  getting  on,  which,  arising  in 
the  preternaturally  careful  disposition  of  his  property 
by  his  great  uncle  Barnabas,  who  had  tied  it  up  so  that 
no  one  could  get  at  it  at  all,  seemed  likely  to  remain  a 

19 


290  The  Man  of  Property 

source  of  income  for  several  solicitors  till  the  Day  of 
Judgment. 

And  how  he  had  called  in  at  Jobson's,  and  seen  a 
Boucher  sold,  which  he  had  just  missed  buying  of  Talley- 
rand &  Sons  in  Pall  Mall. 

He  had  an  admiration  for  Boucher,  Watteau,  and  all 
that  school.  It  was  a  habit  with  him  to  tell  her  all  these 
matters,  and  he  continued  to  do  it  even  now,  talking  for 
long  spells  at  dinner,  as  though  by  the  volubility  of  word 
he  could  conceal  from  himself  the  ache  in  his  heart. 

Often,  if  they  were  alone,  he  made  an  attempt  to  kiss 
her  when  she  said  good-night.  He  may  have  had  some 
vague  notion  that  some  night  she  would  let  him;  or 
perhaps  only  the  feeling  that  a  husband  ought  to  kiss  his 
wife.  Even  if  she  hated  him,  he  at  all  events  ought  not 
to  put  himself  in  the  wrong  by  neglecting  this  ancient 
rite. 

And  why  did  she  hate  him?  Even  now  he  could  not 
altogether  believe  it.  It  was  strange  to  be  hated! — the 
emotion  was  too  extreme;  yet  he  hated  Bosinney,  that 
Buccaneer,  that  prowling  vagabond,  that  night-wanderer. 
For  in  his  thoughts  Soames  always  saw  him  lying  in 
wait — wandering.  Ah,  but  he  must  be  in  very  low  water ! 
Young  Burkitt,  the  architect,  had  seen  him  coming  out 
of  a  third-rate  restaurant,  looking  terribly  down  in  the 
mouth ! 

During  all  the  hours  he  lay  awake,  thinking  over  the 
situation,  which  seemed  to  have  no  end — unless  she 
should  suddenly  come  to  her  senses — never  once  did  the 
thought  of  separating  from  his  wife  seriously  enter  his 
head. 

And  the  Forsytes!  What  part  did  they  play  in  this 
stage  of  Soames's  subterranean  tragedy? 

Truth  to  say,  little  or  none,  for  they  were  at  the  sea. 

From  hotels,  hydropathics,  or  lodging-houses,  they 


Mrs.  MacAnder's  Evidence         291 

were  bathing  daily ;  laying  in  a  stock  of  ozone  to  last  them 
through  the  winter. 

Each  section,  in  the  vineyard  of  its  own  choosing,  grew 
and  culled  and  pressed  and  bottled  the  grapes  of  a  pet 
sea-air. 

The  end  of  September  began  to  witness  their  several 
returns. 

In  rude  health  and  small  omnibuses,  with  considerable 
colour  in  their  cheeks,  they  arrived  daily  from  the 
various  termini.  The  following  morning  saw  them  back 
at  their  vocations. 

On  the  next  Sunday  Timothy's  was  thronged  from 
lunch  till  dinner. 

Amongst  other  gossip,  too  numerous  and  interesting 
to  relate,  Mrs.  Septimus  Small  mentioned  that  Soames 
and  Irene  had  not  been  away. 

It  remained  for  a  comparative  outsider  to  supply  the 
next  evidence  of  interest. 

It  chanced  that  one  afternoon  late  in  September,  Mrs. 
MacAnder,  Winifred  Dartie's  greatest  friend,  taking  a 
constitutional,  with  young  Augustus  Flippard,  on  her 
bicycle  in  Richmond  Park,  passed  Irene  and  Bosinney 
walking  from  the  bracken  towards  the  Sheen  Gate. 

Perhaps  the  poor  little  woman  was  thirsty,  for  she  had 
ridden  long  on  a  hard,  dry  road,  and,  as  all  London  knows, 
to  ride  a  bicycle  and  talk  to  young  Flippard  will  try  the 
toughest  constitution;  or  perhaps  the  sight  of  the  cool 
bracken  grove,  whence  "those  two"  were  coming  down, 
excited  her  envy.  The  cool  bracken  grove  on  the  top  of 
the  hill,  with  the  oak  boughs  for  roof,  where  the  pigeons 
were  raising  an  endless  wedding  hymn,  and  the  autumn, 
humming,  whispered  to  the  ears  of  lovers  in  the  fern, 
while  the  deer  stole  by.  The  bracken  grove  of  irretrieva- 
ble delights,  of  golden  minutes  in  the  long  marriage  of 
heaven  and  earth!  The  bracken  grove,  sacred  to  stags, 


292  The  Man  of  Property 

to  strange  tree-stump  fauns  leaping  around  the  silver 
whiteness  of  a  birch-tree  nymph  at  summer  dusk  ! 

This  lady  knew  all  the  Forsytes,  and  having  been  at 
June 's  "  At  Home,  "was  not  at  a  loss  to  see  with  whom  she 
had  to  deal.  Her  own  marriage,  poor  thing,  had  not  been 
successful,  but  having  the  good  sense  and  ability  to  force 
her  husband  into  pronounced  error,  she  herself  had 
passed  through  the  necessary  divorce  proceedings  without 
incurring  censure. 

She  was  therefore  a  judge  of  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and 
lived  in  one  of  those  large  buildings,  where,  in  small  sets 
of  apartments,  are  gathered  incredible  quantities  of 
Forsytes,  whose  chief  recreation  out  of  business  hours  is 
the  discussion  of  each  others '  affairs. 

Poor  little  woman,  perhaps  she  was  thirsty,  certainly 
she  was  bored,  for  Flippard  was  a  wit.  To  see  "those 
two  "  in  so  unlikely  a  spot  was  quite  a  merciful  "  pick-me- 
up." 

At  the  MacAnder,  like  all  London,  Time  pauses. 

This  small  but  remarkable  woman  merits  attention; 
her  all-seeing  eye  and  shrewd  tongue  were  inscrutably  the 
means  of  furthering  the  ends  of  Providence. 

With  an  air  of  being  in  at  the  death,  she  had  an  almost 
distressing  power  of  taking  care  of  herself.  She  had  done 
more,  perhaps,  in  her  way  than  any  woman  about  town 
to  destroy  the  sense  of  chivalry  which  still  clogs  the  wheel 
of  civilisation.  So  smart  she  was,  and  spoken  of  en- 
dearingly as  "the  little  MacAnder!" 

Dressing  tightly  and  well,  she  belonged  to  a  Woman's 
Club,  but  was  by  no  means  the  neurotic  and  dismal  type 
of  member  who  was  always  thinking  of  her  rights.  She 
took  her  rights  unconsciously,  they  came  natural  to  her, 
and  she  knew  exactly  how  to  make  the  most  of  them 
without  exciting  anything  but  admiration  amongst  that 
great  class  to  whom  she  was  affiliated,  not  precisely 


Mrs.  MacAnder's  Evidence          293 

perhaps  by  manner,  but  by  birth,  breeding,  and  the  true, 
the  secret  gauge,  a  sense  of  property. 

The  daughter  of  a  Bedfordshire  solicitor,  by  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  clergyman,  she  had  never,  through  all  the  painful 
experience  of  being  married  to  a  very  mild  painter  with 
a  cranky  love  of  Nature,  who  had  deserted  her  for  an 
actress,  lost  touch  with  the  requirements,  beliefs,  and 
inner  feeling  of  Society;  and,  on  attaining  her  liberty, 
she  placed  herself  without  effort  in  the  very  thick  of 
Forsyteism. 

Always  in  good  spirits,  and  "full  of  information,"  she 
was  universally  welcomed.  She  excited  neither  surprise 
nor  disapprobation  when  encountered  on  the  Rhine  or  at 
Zermatt,  either  alone,  or  travelling  with  a  lady  and  two 
gentlemen;  it  was  felt  that  she  was  perfectly  capable  of 
taking  care  of  herself;  and  the  hearts  of  all  Forsytes 
Warmed  to  that  wonderful  instinct,  which  enabled  her 
to  enjoy  everything  without  giving  anything  away.  It 
was  generally  felt  that  to  such  women  as  Mrs.  MacAnder 
should  we  look  for  the  perpetuation  and  increase  of 
our  best  type  of  woman.  She  had  never  had  any 
children. 

If  there  was  one  thing  more  than  another  that  she 
could  not  stand  it  was  one  of  those  soft  women  with 
what  men  called  "charm"  about  them,  and  for  Mrs. 
Soames  she  always  had  an  especial  dislike. 

Obscurely,  no  doubt,  she  felt  that  if  charm  were  once 
admitted  as  the  criterion,  smartness  and  capability  must 
go  to  the  wall ;  and  she  hated — with  a  hatred  the  deeper 
that  at  times  this  so-called  charm  seemed  to  disturb  all 
calculations — the  subtle  seductiveness  which  she  could 
not  altogether  overlook  in  Irene. 

She  said,  however,  that  she  could  see  nothing  in  the 
woman — there  was  no  "go"  about  her — she  would  never 
be  able  to  stand  up  for  herself — any  one  could  take 


294  The  Man  of  Property 

advantage  of  her,  that  was  plain — she  could  not  see  in 
fact  what  men  found  to  admire! 

She  was  not  really  ill-natured,  but,  in  maintaining  her 
position  after  the  trying  circumstances  of  her  married 
life,  she  had  found  it  so  necessary  to  be  "full  of  informa- 
tion," that  the  idea  of  holding  her  tongue  about  "those 
two  "  in  the  Park  never  occurred  to  her. 

And  it  so  happened  that  she  was  dining  that  very- 
evening  at  Timothy's,  where  she  went  sometimes  to 
1 '  cheer  the  old  things  up , "  as  she  was  wont  to  put  it .  The 
same  people  were  always  asked  to  meet  her:  Winifred 
Dartie  and  her  husband;  Francie,  because  she  belonged 
to  the  artistic  circles,  for  Mrs.  MacAnder  was  known  to 
contribute  articles  on  dress  to  The  Ladies'  Kingdom 
Come  ;  and  for  her  to  flirt  with,  provided  they  could  be  ob- 
tained, two  of  the  Hayman  boys,  who,  though  they  never 
said  anything,  were  believed  to  be  fast  and  thoroughly 
intimate  with  all  that  was  latest  in  smart  Society. 

At  twenty-five  minutes  past  seven  she  turned  out  the 
electric  light  in  her  little  hall,  and,  wrapped  in  her  opera 
cloak  with  the  chinchilla  collar,  came  out  into  the  corri- 
dor, pausing  a  moment  to  make  sure  she  had  her  latch- 
key. These  little  self-contained  flats  were  convenient; 
to  be  sure,  she  had  no  light  and  no  air,  but  she  could 
shut  it  up  whenever  she  liked  and  go  away.  There  was 
no  bother  with  servants,  and  she  never  felt  tied  as  she 
used  to  when  poor,  dear  Fred  was  always  about,  in  his 
mooney  way.  She  retained  no  rancour  against  poor  dear 
Fred,  he  was  such  a  fool;  but  the  thought  of  that  actress 
drew  from  her,  even  now,  a  little,  bitter,  derisive  smile. 

Firmly  snapping  the  door  to,  she  crossed  the  corridor, 
with  its  gloomy,  yellow-ochre  walls,  and  its  infinite  vista 
of  brown,  numbered  doors.  The  lift  was  going  down ;  and 
wrapped  to  the  ears  in  the  high  cloak,  with  every  one  of 
frer  auburn  hairs  in  its  place,  she  waited  motionless  for  it 


Mrs.  MacAnder's  Evidence          295 

to  stop  at  her  floor.  The  iron  gates  clanked  open;  she 
entered.  There  were  already  three  occupants,  a  man 
in  a  great  white  waistcoat,  with  a  large,  smooth  face  like 
a  baby's,  and  two  old  ladies  in  black,  with  mittened 
hands. 

Mrs.  MacAnder  smiled  at  them;  she  knew  everybody; 
and  all  these  three,  who  had  been  admirably  silent 
before,  began  to  talk  at  once.  This  was  Mrs.  MacAnder's 
successful  secret.  She  provoked  conversation. 

Throughout  a  descent  of  five  stories  the  conversation 
continued,  the  lift  boy  standing  with  his  back  turned,  his 
cynical  face  protruding  through  the  bars. 

At  the  bottom  they  separated,  the  man  in  the  white 
waistcoat  sentimentally  to  the  billiard-room,  the  old 
ladies  to  dine  and  say  to  each  other:  "A  dear  little 
woman!"  "Such  a  rattle!"  and  Mrs.  MacAnder  to  her 
cab. 

When  Mrs.  MacAnder  dined  at  Timothy's,  the  con- 
versation (although  Timothy  himself  could  never  be 
induced  to  be  present)  took  that  wider,  man-of-the- 
world  tone  current  among  Forsytes  at  large,  and  this,  no 
doubt,  was  what  put  her  at  a  premium  there. 

Mrs.  Small  and  Aunt  Hester  found  it  an  exhilarating 
change.  ''If  only,"  they  said,  "Timothy  would  meet 
her!"  It  was  felt  that  she  would  do  him  good.  She 
could  tell  you,  for  instance,  the  latest  story  of  Sir  Charles 
Piste's  son  at  Monte  Carlo;  who  was  the  real  heroine  of 
Tynemouth  Eddy's  fashionable  novel  that  every  one  was 
holding  up  their  hands  over,  and  what  they  were  doing 
in  Paris  about  wearing  bloomers.  She  was  so  sensible, 
too,  knowing  all  about  that  vexed  question,  whether  to 
send  young  Nicholas 's  eldest  into  the  navy  as  his  mother 
wished,  or  make  him  an  accountant  as  his  father  thought 
would  be  safer.  She  strongly  deprecated  the  navy.  If 
you  were  not  exceptionally  brilliant  or  exceptionally 


296  The  Man  of  Property 

well  connected,  they  passed  you  over  so  disgracefully, 
and  what  was  it  after  all  to  look  forward  to,  even  if  you 
became  an  admiral — a  pittance!  An  accountant  had 
many  more  chances,  but  let  him  be  put  with  a  good  firm, 
where  there  was  no  risk  at  starting! 

Sometimes  she  would  give  them  a  tip  on  the  Stock 
Exchange;  not  that  Mrs.  Small  or  Aunt  Hester  ever 
took  it.  They  had  indeed  no  money  to  invest;  but  it 
seemed  to  bring  them  into  such  exciting  touch  with  the 
realities  of  life.  It  was  an  event.  They  would  ask 
Timothy,  they  said.  But  they  never  did,  knowing  in 
advance  that  it  would  upset  him.  Surreptitiously, 
however,  for  weeks  after  they  would  look  in  that  paper 
which  they  took  with  respect  on  account  of  its  really 
fashionable  proclivities,  to  see  whether  "Blight's 
Rubies"  or  "The  Woollen  Mackintosh  Company "  were 
up  or  down.  Sometimes  they  could  not  find  the  name 
of  the  company  at  all ;  and  they  would  wait  until  James 
or  Roger  or  even  S within  came  in,  and  ask  them  in 
voices  trembling  with  curiosity  how  that  "Bolivia  Lime 
and  Speltrate"  was  doing — they  could  not  find  it  in  the 
paper. 

And  Roger  would  answer:  "What  do  you  want  to 
know  for?  Some  trash!  You'll  go  burning  your  fin- 
gers— in  vesting  your  money  in  lime,  and  things  you 
know  nothing  about!  Who  told  you? "  and  ascertaining 
what  they  had  been  told,  he  would  go  away,  and,  making 
inquiries  in  the  City,  would  perhaps  invest  some  of  his  own 
money  in  the  concern. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  dinner,  just  in  fact  as  the 
saddle  of  mutton  had  been  brought  in  by  Smither,  that 
Mrs.  MacAnder,  looking  airily  round,  said:  "Oh!  and 
whom  do  you  think  I  passed  to-day  in  Richmond  Park? 
You'll  never  guess — Mrs.  Soames  and — Mr.  Bosinney. 
They  must  have  been  down  to  look  at  the  house  I" 


Mrs.  MacAnder' s  Evidence         297 

Winifred  Dartie  coughed,  and  no  one  said  a  word.  It 
was  the  piece  of  evidence  they  had  all  unconsciously  been 
waiting  for. 

To  do  Mrs.  MacAnder  justice,  she  had  been  to  Switzer- 
land and  the  Italian  lakes  with  a  party  of  three,  and  had 
not  heard  of  Soames's  rupture  with  his  architect.  She 
could  not  tell,  therefore,  the  profound  impression  her 
words  would  make. 

Upright  and  a  little  flushed,  she  moved  her  small, 
shrewd  eyes  from  face  to  face,  trying  to  gauge  the  effect 
of  her  words.  On  either  side  of  her  a  Hayman  boy,  his 
lean,  taciturn,  hungry  face  turned  towards  his  plate, 
ate  his  mutton  steadily, 

These  two,  Giles  and  Jesse,  were  so  alike  and  so  in- 
separable that  they  were  known  as  the  Dromios.  They 
never  talked,  and  seemed  always  completely  occupied 
in  doing  nothing.  It  was  popularly  supposed  that  they 
were  cramming  for  an  important  examination.  They 
walked  without  hats  for  long  hours  in  the  gardens  at- 
tached to  their  house,  books  in  their  hands,  a  fox-terrier 
at  their  heels,  never  saying  a  word,  and  smoking  all  the 
time.  Every  morning,  about  fifty  yards  apart,  they 
trotted  down  Campden  Hill  on  two  lean  hacks,  with  legs 
as  long  as  their  own,  and  every  morning  about  an  hour 
later,  still  fifty  yards  apart,  they  cantered  up  again. 
Every  evening,  wherever  they  had  dined,  they  might  be 
observed  about  half -past  ten,  leaning  over  the  balustrade 
of  the  Alhambra  promenade. 

They  were  never  seen  otherwise  than  together;  in  this 
way  passing  their  lives,  apparently  perfectly  content. 

Inspired  by  some  dumb  stirring  within  them  of  the 
feelings  of  gentlemen,  they  turned  at  this  painful  moment 
to  Mrs.  MacAnder,  and  said  in  precisely  the  same  voice: 
* '  Have  you  seen  the ? ' ' 

Such  was  her  surprise  at  being  thus  addressed  that  she 


298  The  Man  of  Property 

put  down  her  fork;  and  Smither,  who  was  passing, 
promptly  removed  her  plate.  Mrs.  MacAnder,  however, 
with  presence  of  mind,  said  instantly:  "I  must  have  a 
little  more  of  that  nice  mutton." 

But  afterwards  in  the  drawing-room  she  sat  down  by 
Mrs.  Small,  determined  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  the 
matter.  And  she  began  : 

"What  a  charming  woman,  Mrs.  Soames  ;  such  a 
sympathetic  temperament!  Soames  is  really  a  lucky 
man  !" 

Her  anxiety  for  information  had  not  made  sufficient 
allowance  for  that  inner  Forsyte  skin  which  refuses  to 
share  its  troubles  with  outsiders;  Mrs.  Septimus  Small, 
drawing  herself  up  with  a  creak  and  rustle  of  her  whole 
person,  said,  shivering  in  her  dignity  : 

"My  dear,  it  is  a  subject  we  do  not  talk  about  1 " 


CHAPTER  XXV 

NIGHT     IN     THE     PARK 

A  LTHOUGH  with  her  infallible  instinct  Mrs.  Small 
/~\  had  said  the  very  thing  to  make  her  guest  ' '  more 
intriguee  than  ever,"  it  is  difficult  to  see  how  else 
she  could  truthfully  have  spoken. 

It  was  not  a  subject  which  the  Forsytes  could  talk 
about  even  among  themselves — to  use  the  word  Soames 
had  invented  to  characterise  to  himself  the  situation, 
it  was  * '  subterranean. ' ' 

Yet,  within  a  week  of  Mrs.  MacAnder's  encounter  in 
Richmond  Park,  to  all  of  them — save  Timothy,  from 
whom  it  was  carefully  kept — to  James  on  his  domestic 
beat  from  the  Poultry  to  Park  Lane,  to  George  the  wild 
one,  on  his  daily  adventure  from  the  bow  window  at  the 
Haversnake  to  the  billiard-room  at  the  "Red  Pottle," 
was  it  known  that  "those  two"  had  gone  to  extremes. 

George  (it  was  he  who  invented  many  of  those  striking 
expressions  still  current  in  fashionable  circles)  voiced  the 
sentiment  more  accurately  than  any  one  when  he  said  to 
his  brother  Eustace  that  "the  Buccaneer"  was  "going 
it";  he  expected  Soames  was  about  "fed  up." 

It  was  felt  that  he  must  be,  and  yet,  what  could  be 
done?  He  ought  perhaps  to  take  steps;  but  to  take 
steps  would  be  deplorable. 

Without  an  open  scandal  which  they  could  not  see 
their  way  to  recommending,  it  was  difficult  to  see  what 

299 


3oo  The  Man  of  Property 

steps  could  be  taken.  In  this  impasse,  the  only  thing  was 
to  say  nothing  to  Soames,  and  nothing  to  each  other; 
in  fact,  to  pass  it  over. 

By  displaying  towards  Irene  a  dignified  coldness,  some 
impression  might  be  made  upon  her;  but  she  was  seldom 
now  to  be  seen,  and  there  seemed  a  slight  difficulty  in 
seeking  her  out  on  purpose  to  show  her  coldness.  Some- 
times in  the  privacy  of  his  bedroom  James  would  reveal  to 
Emily  the  real  suffering  that  his  son 's  misfortune  caused 
him. 

"7  can't  tell, "  he  would  say;  "it  worries  me  out  of  my 
life.  There'll  be  a  scandal,  and  that'll  do  him  no  good. 
I  shan't  say  anything  to  him.  There  might  be  nothing 
in  it.  What  do  you  think?  She's  very  artistic,  they 
tell  me.  What?  Oh,  you're  a  Regular  Juley'!  Well, 
I  don't  know;  I  expect  the  worst.  This  is  what  comes 
of  having  no  children.  I  knew  how  it  would  be  from  the 
first.  They  never  told  me  they  didn't  mean  to  have  any 
children — nobody  tells  me  anything! " 

On  his  knees  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  his  eyes  open  and 
fixed  with  worry,  he  would  breathe  into  the  counter- 
pane. Clad  in  his  nightshirt,  his  neck  poked  for- 
ward, his  back  rounded,  he  resembled  some  long  white 
bird. 

"Our  Father "  he  repeated,  turning  over  and  over 

again  the  thought  of  this  possible  scandal. 

Like  old  Jolyon,  he,  too,  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  set 
the  blame  of  the  tragedy  down  to  family  interference. 
What  business  had  that  lot — he  began  to  think  of  the 
Stanhope  Gate  branch,  including  young  Jolyon  and  his 
daughter,  as  "that  lot" — to  introduce  a  person  like  this 
Bosinney  into  the  family?  (He  had  heard  George '  s  sou- 
briquet "the  Buccaneer,"  but  he  could  make  nothing  of 
that — the  young  man  was  an  architect.) 

He  began  to  feel  that  his  brother  Jolyon,  to  whom  he 


Night  in  the  Park  30 r 

had  always  looked  up  and  on  whose  opinion  he  had 
relied,  was  not  quite  what  he  had  expected. 

Not  having  his  eldest  brother's  force  of  character,  he 
was  more  sad  than  angry.  His  great  comfort  was  to  go 
to  Winifred's,  and  take  the  little  Darties  in  his  carriage 
over  to  Kensington  Gardens,  and  there,  by  the  Round 
Pond,  he  could  often  be  seen  walking  with  his  eyes  fixed 
anxiously  on  little  Publius  Dartie's  sailing-boat,  which 
he  had  himself  freighted  with  a  penny,  as  though  con- 
vinced that  it  would  never  again  come  to  shore ;  while 
little  Publius — who  James  delighted  to  say  was  not  a  bit 
like  his  father — skipping  along  under  his  lee,  would  try  to 
get  him  to  bet  another  penny  that  it  never  would,  having 
found  that  it  always  did.  And  James  would  make  the 
bet ;  he  always  paid — sometimes  as  many  as  three  or  four 
pennies  in  the  afternoon,  for  the  game  seemed  never  to 
pall  on  little  Publius — and  always  in  paying  he  said: 
"  Now,  that 's  for  your  money-box.  Why,  you  're  getting 
quite  a  rich  man!  "  The  thought  of  his  little  grandson's 
growing  wealth  was  a  real  pleasure  to  him.  But  little 
Publius  knew  a  sweet-shop,  and  a  trick  worth  two  of  that. 

And  they  would  walk  home  across  the  Park,  James's 
figure,  with  high  shoulders  and  absorbed  and  worried 
face,  exercising  its  tall,  lean  protectorship,  pathetically 
unregarded,  over  the  robust  child-figures  of  Imogen 
and  little  Publius. 

But  those  Gardens  and  that  Park  were  not  sacred  to 
James.  Forsytes  and  tramps,  children  and  lovers, 
rested  and  wandered  day  after  day,  night  after  night, 
seeking  one  and  all  some  freedom  from  labour,  from  the 
reek  and  turmoil  of  the  streets. 

The  leaves  browned  slowly,  lingering  with  the  sun  and 
summer-like  warmth  of  the  nights. 

On  Saturday,  October  5th,  the  sky  that  had  been  blue 
all  day  deepened  after  sunset  to  the  bloom  of  purple 


The  Man  of  Property 

grapes.  There  was  no  moon,  and  a  clear  dark,  like  some 
velvety  garment,  was  wrapped  around  the  trees,  whose 
thinned  branches,  resembling  plumes,  stirred  not  in  the 
still,  warm  air.  All  London  had  poured  into  the  Park, 
draining  the  cup  of  summer  to  its  dregs. 

Couple  after  couple,  from  every  gate,  they  streamed 
along  the  paths  and  over  the  burnt  grass,  and  one  after 
another,  silently  out  of  the  lighted  spaces,  stole  into 
the  shelter  of  the  feathery  trees,  where,  blotted  against 
some  trunk,  or  under  the  shadow  of  shrubs,  they  were 
lost  to  all  but  themselves  in  the  heart  of  the  soft  darkness. 

To  fresh-comers  along  the  paths,  these  forerunners 
formed  but  part  of  that  passionate  dusk,  whence  only  a 
strange  murmur,  like  the  confused  beating  of  hearts, 
came  forth.  But  when  that  murmur  reached  each  couple 
in  the  lamplight,  their  voices  wavered,  and  ceased; 
their  arms  enlaced,  their  eyes  began  seeking,  searching, 
probing  the  blackness.  Suddenly,  as  though  drawn  by 
invisible  hands,  they,  too,  stepped  over  the  railing,  and, 
silent  as  shadows,  were  gone  from  the  light. 

The  stillness,  enclosed  in  the  far,  inexorable  roar  of  the 
town,  was  alive  with  the  myriad  passions,  hopes,  and 
loves  of  multitudes  of  struggling  human  atoms;  for  in 
spite  of  the  disapproval  of  that  great  body  of  Forsytes, 
the  Municipal  Council — to  whom  Love  had  long  been 
considered,  next  to  the  Sewage  Question,  the  gravest 
danger  to  the  community — a  process  was  going  on  that 
night  in  the  Park,  and  in  a  hundred  other  parks,  without 
which  the  thousand  factories,  churches,  shops,  taxes,  and 
drains,  of  which  they  are  custodians,  were  as  arteries 
without  blood,  a  man  without  a  heart. 

The  instincts  of  self-forgetfulness,  of  passion,  and  of 
love,  hiding  under  the  trees,  away  from  the  trustees  of 
their  remorseless  enemy,  the  "sense  of  property,"  were 
holding  a  stealthy  revel,  and  Soames,  returning  from 


Night  in  the  Park  303 

Bays  water — for  he  had  been  alone  to  dine  at  Timothy's — • 
walking  home  along  the  water,  with  his  mind  upon  that 
coming  lawsuit,  had  the  blood  driven  from  his  heart  by  a 
low  laugh  and  the  sound  of  kisses.  He  thought  of  writing 
to  the  Times  the  next  morning,  to  draw  the  attention  of 
the  editor  to  the  condition  of  our  parks.  He  did  not, 
however,  for  he  had  a  horror  of  seeing  his  name  in  print. 

But  starved  as  he  was,  the  whispered  sounds  in  the 
stillness,  the  half -seen  forms  in  the  dark,  acted  on  him  like 
some  morbid  stimulant.  He  left  the  path  along  the 
water  and  stole  under  the  trees,  along  the  deep  shadow  of 
little  plantations,  where  the  boughs  of  chestnut  trees 
hung  their  great  leaves  low,  and  there  was  blacker 
refuge,  shaping  his  course  in  circles  that  had  for  their 
object  a  stealthy  inspection  of  chairs  side  by  side  against 
tree-trunks,  of  enlaced  lovers,  who  stirred  at  his  appoach. 

Now  he  stood  still  on  the  rise  overlooking  the  Serpen- 
tine, where,  in  full  lamplight,  black  against  the  silver 
water,  sat  a  couple  who  never  moved,  the  woman 's  face 
buried  on  the  man's  neck — a  single  form,  like  a  carved 
emblem  of  passion,  silent  and  unashamed. 

And,  stung  by  the  sight,  Soames  hurried  on  deeper  into 
the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

In  this  search,  who  knows  what  he  thought  and  what 
he  sought?  Bread  for  hunger — light  in  darkness?  Who 
knows  what  he  expected  to  find — impersonal  knowledge 
of  the  human  heart — the  end  of  his  private  subterranean 
tragedy — for,  again,  who  knew,  but  that  each  dark 
couple,  unnamed,  unnameable,  might  not  be  he  and  she? 

But  it  could  not  be  such  knowledge  as  this  that  he  was 
seeking — the  wife  of  Soames  Forsyte  sitting  in  the  Park 
like  a  common  wench!  Such  thoughts  were  inconceiv- 
able; and  from  tree  to  tree,  with  his  noiseless  step,  he 
passed. 

Once  he  was  sworn  at;   once  the  whisper,  "If  only  it 


304  The  Man  of  Property 

could  always  be  like  this ! "  sent  the  blood  flying  again 
from  his  heart,  and  he  waited  there,  patient  and  dogged, 
for  the  two  to  move.  But  it  was  only  a  poor  thin  slip  of  a 
shop-girl  in  her  draggled  blouse  that  passed  him,  clinging 
to  her  lover's  arm. 

A  hundred  other  lovers  too,  whispered  that  hope  in 
the  stillness  of  the  trees,  a  hundred  other  lovers  clung  to 
each  other. 

But  shaking  himself  with  sudden  disgust  Soames 
returned  to  the  path,  and  left  that  seeking  for  he  knew 
not  what. 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

MEETING  AT  THE  BOTANICAL 

YOUNG  JOLYON,  whose  circumstances  were  not 
those  of  a  Forsyte,  found  at  times  a  difficulty  in 
sparing  the  money  needful  for  those  country  jaunts  and 
researches  into  Nature,  without  having  prosecuted  which 
no  water-colour  artist  ever  puts  brush  to  paper. 

He  was  frequently,  in  fact,  obliged  to  take  his  colour- 
box  into  the  Botanical  Gardens,  and  there  on  his  stool, 
in  the  shade  of  a  monkey-  puzzler  or  in  the  lee  of  some 
India-rubber  plant,  he  would  spend  long  hours  sketching. 

An  Art  critic  who  had  recently  been  looking  at  his 
work  had  delivered  himself  as  follows  : 

"In  a  way  your  drawings  are  very  good;  tone  and 
colour,  in  some  of  them  certainly  quite  a  feeling  for 
Nature.  But,  you  see,  they  're  so  scattered ;  you  11  never 
get  the  public  to  look  at  them.  Now,  if  you'd  taken  a 
definite  subject,  such  as  London  by  Night,  or  The 
Crystal  Palace  in  the  Spring  and  made  a  regular  series, 
the  public  would  have  known  at  once  what  they  were 
looking  at.  I  can't  lay  too  much  stress  upon  that.  All 
the  men  who  are  making  great  names  in  Art,  like  Crum, 
Stone,  or  Bleeder,  are  making  them  by  avoiding  the  un- 
expected ;  by  specialising  and  putting  their  works  all  in 
the  same  pigeon-hole,  so  that  the  public  know  at  once 
where  to  go.  And  this  stands  to  reason,  for  if  a  man  's  a 
collector  he  does  n't  want  people  to  smell  at  the  canvas  to 
20  305 


306  The  Man  of  Property 

find  out  whom  his  pictures  are  by;  he  wants  them  to  be 
able  to  say  at  once,  'A  capital  Forsyte!'  It  is  all  the 
more  important  for  you  to  be  careful  to  choose  a  subject 
that  they  can  lay  hold  of  on  the  spot,  since  there's  no 
very  marked  originality  in  your  style." 

Young  Jolyon,  standing  by  the  little  piano,  where  a 
bowl  of  dried  rose  leaves,  the  only  produce  of  the  garden, 
was  deposited  on  a  bit  of  faded  damask,  listened  with  his 
dim  smile. 

Turning  to  his  wife,  who  was  looking  at  the  speaker 
with  an  angry  expression  on  her  thin  face,  he  said: 

"You  see,  dear?" 

"I  do  not,"  she  answered  in  her  staccato  voice,  that 
still  had  a  little  foreign  accent;  "your  style  has 
originality." 

The  critic  looked  at  her,  smiled  deferentially,  and 
said  no  more.  Like  every  one  else,  he  knew  their  history. 

The  words  bore  good  fruit  with  young  Jolyon;  they 
were  contrary  to  all  that  he  believed  in,  to  all  that  he 
theoretically  held  good  in  his  Art,  but  some  strange,  deep 
instinct  moved  him  against  his  will  to  turn  them  to 
profit. 

He  discovered  therefore  one  morning  that  an  idea  had 
come  to  him  for  making  a  series  of  water-colour  drawings 
of  London.  How  the  idea  had  arisen  he  could  not  tell; 
and  it  was  not  till  the  following  year,  when  he  had  com- 
pleted them  and  sold  them  at  a  very  fair  price,  that  in 
one  of  his  impersonal  moods,  he  found  himself  able  to 
recollect  the  Art  critic,  and  to  discover  in  his  own  achieve- 
ment another  proof  that  he  was  a  Forsyte. 

He  decided  to  commence  with  the  Botanical  Gardens, 
where  he  had  already  made  so  many  studies,  and  chose 
the  little  artificial  pond,  sprinkled  now  with  an  autumn 
shower  of  red  and  yellow  leaves,  for  though  the  gardeners 
longed  to  sweep  them  off,  they  could  not  reach  them 


Meeting  at  the  Botanical  307 

with  their  brooms.  The  rest  of  the  gardens  they  swept 
bare  enough,  removing  every  morning  Nature's  rain  of 
leaves;  piling  them  in  heaps,  whence  from  slow  fires 
rose  the  sweet,  acrid  smoke  that,  like  the  cuckoo's  note 
for  spring,  the  scent  of  lime-trees  for  the  summer,  is  the 
true  emblem  of  the  fall.  The  gardeners'  tidy  souls 
could  not  abide  the  gold  and  green  and  russet  pattern 
on  the  grass.  The  gravel  paths  must  lie  unstained, 
ordered,  methodical,  without  knowledge  of  the  realities 
of  life,  nor  of  that  slow  and  beautiful  decay  that  flings 
crowns  underfoot  to  star  the  earth  with  fallen  glories, 
whence,  as  the  cycle  rolls,  will  leap  again  wild  spring. 

Thus  each  leaf  that  fell  was  marked  from  the  moment 
when  it  fluttered  a  good-bye  and  dropped,  slow  turning, 
from  its  twig. 

But  on  that  little  pond  the  leaves  floated  in  peace,  and 
praised  heaven  with  their  hues,  the  sunlight  haunting 
over  them. 

And  so  young  Jolyon  found  them. 

Coming  there  one  morning  in  the  middle  of  October,  he 
was  disconcerted  to  find  a  bench  about  twenty  paces 
from  his  stand  occupied,  for  he  had  a  proper  horror  of 
any  one  seeing  him  at  work. 

A  lady  in  a  velvet  jacket  was  sitting  there,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  A  flowering  laurel,  however, 
stood  between,  and,  taking  shelter  behind  this,  young 
Jolyon  prepared  his  easel. 

His  preparations  were  leisurely;  he  caught,  as  every 
true  artist  should,  at  anything  that  might  delay  for  a 
moment  the  effort  of  his  work,  and  he  found  himself 
looking  furtively  at  this  unknown  dame. 

Like  his  father  before  him,  he  had  an  eye  for  a  face. 
This  face  was  charming! 

He  saw  a  rounded  chin  nestling  in  a  cream  ruffle,  a 
delicate  face  with  large  dark  eyes  and  soft  lips.  A  black 


3o8  The  Man  of  Property 

"picture"  hat  concealed  the  hair;  her  figure  was  lightly 
poised  against  the  back  of  the  bench,  her  knees  were 
crossed ;  the  tip  of  a  patent  leather  shoe  emerged  beneath 
her  skirt.  There  was  something,  indeed,  inexpressibly 
dainty  about  the  person  of  this  lady,  but  young  Jolyon's 
attention  was  chiefly  riveted  by  the  look  on  her  face, 
which  reminded  him  of  his  wife.  It  was  as  though  its 
owner  had  come  into  contact  with  forces  too  strong 
for  her.  It  troubled  him,  arousing  vague  feelings  of 
attraction  and  chivalry.  Who  was  she?  And  what 
doing  there,  alone? 

Two  young  gentlemen  of  that  peculiar  breed,  at  once 
forward  and  shy,  found  in  the  Regent's  Park,  came  by  on 
their  way  to  lawn  tennis,  and  he  noted  with  disapproval 
their  furtive  stares  of  admiration.  A  loitering  gardener 
halted  to  do  something  unnecessary  to  a  clump  of  pampas 
grass;  he,  too,  wanted  an  excuse  for  peeping.  A  gentle, 
man,  old,  and,  by  his  hat,  a  professor  of  horticulture, 
passed  three  times  to  scrutinise  her  long  and  stealthily, 
a  queer  expression  about  his  lips. 

With  all  these  men  young  Jolyon  felt  the  same  vague 
irritation.  She  looked  at  none  of  them,  yet  was  he 
certain  that  every  man  who  passed  would  look  at  her 
like  that. 

Her  face  was  not  the  face  of  a  sorceress,  who  in  every 
look  holds  out  to  men  the  offer  of  pleasure ;  it  had  none 
of  the  "devil's  beauty"  so  highly  prized  among  the  first 
Forsytes  of  the  land;  neither  was  it  of  that  type,  no  less 
adorable,  associated  with  the  box  of  chocolate ;  it  was  not 
of  the  spiritually  passionate,  or  passionately  spiritual 
order,  peculiar  to  house  decoration  and  modern  poetry; 
nor  did  it  seem  to  promise  to  the  playwright  material 
for  the  production  of  the  interesting  and  neurasthenic 
figure,  who  commits  suicide  in  the  last  act. 

In  shape  and  colouring,  in  its  soft  persuasive  passivity, 


Meeting  at  the  Botanical  309 

its  sensuous  purity,  this  woman's  face  reminded  him  of 
Titian's  Heavenly  Love,  a  reproduction  of  which  hung 
over  the  sideboard  in  his  dining-room.  And  her  at- 
traction seemed  to  be  in  this  soft  passivity,  in  the  feeling 
she  gave  that  to  pressure  she  must  yield. 

For  what  or  whom  was  she  waiting,  in  the  silence,  with 
the  trees  dropping  here  and  there  a  leaf,  and  the  thrushes 
strutting  close  on  grass  touched  with  the  sparkle  of  the 
autumn  rime  ? 

Then  her  charming  face  grew  eager,  and,  glancing 
round,  with  almost  a  lover's  jealousy,  young  Jolyon  saw 
Bosinney  striding  across  the  grass. 

Curiously  he  watched  the  meeting,  the  look  in  their 
eyes,  the  long  clasp  of  their  hands.  They  sat  down  close 
together,  linked  for  all  their  outward  discretion.  He 
heard  the  rapid  murmur  of  their  talk ;  but  what  they  said 
he  could  not  catch. 

He  had  rowed  in  the  galley  himself!  He  knew  the 
long  hours  of  waiting  and  the  lean  minutes  of  a  half- 
public  meeting;  the  tortures  of  suspense  that  haunt  the 
unhallowed  lover. 

It  required,  however,  but  a  glance  at  their  two  faces  to 
see  that  this  was  none  of  those  affairs  of  a  season  that 
distract  men  and  women  about  town;  none  of  those 
sudden  appetites  that  wake  up  ravening,  and  are  sur- 
feited and  asleep  again  in  six  weeks.  This  was  the  real 
thing!  This  was  what  hr,d  happened  to  himself!  Out 
of  this  anything  might  come! 

Bosinney  was  pleading,  and  she  so  quiet,  so  soft,  yet 
immovable  in  her  passivity,  sat  looking  over  the  grass. 

Was  he  the  man  to  cnrry  her  off,  thr.t  tender,  passive 
being,  who  would  never  stir  a  step  f  T  herself  ?  Who  had 
given  him  all  herself,  and  w  v.ld  dl,:  for  him,  but  perhaps 
would  never  run  away  with  him! 

It  seemed  to  young  Jolyon  that  he  could  hear  hef 


310  The  Man  of  Property 

saying:  "But,  darling,  it  would  ruin  you!*'  For  he 
himself  had  experienced  to  the  full  the  gnawing  fear  at 
the  bottom  of  each  woman's  heart  that  she  is  a  drag  on 
the  man  she  loves. 

And  he  peeped  at  them  no  more;  but  their  soft,  rapid 
talk  came  to  his  ears,  with  the  stuttering  song  of  some 
bird  that  seemed  trying  to  remember  the  notes  of  spring: 
Joy — tragedy  ?  Which — which  ? 

And  gradually  their  talk  ceased ;  long  silence  followed. 

"And  where  does  Soames  come  in?"  young  Jolyon 
thought.  "People  think  she  is  concerned  about  the  sin 
of  deceiving  her  husband!  Little  they  know  of  women! 
She 's  eating,  after  starvation — taking  her  revenge  ! 
And  Heaven  help  her — for  he'll  take  his." 

He  heard  the  swish  of  silk,  and,  spying  round  the 
laurel,  saw  them  walking  away,  their  hands  stealthily 
joined. 

At  the  end  of  July  old  Jolyon  had  taken  his  grand- 
daughter to  the  mountains;  and  on  that  visit  (the  last 
they  ever  paid)  June  recovered  to  a  great  extent  her 
health  and  spirits.  In  the  hotels,  filled  with  British 
Forsytes — for  old  Jolyon  could  not  bear  a  "set  of 
Germans,"  as  he  called  all  foreigners — she  was  looked 
upon  with  respect — the  only  grand-daughter  of  that  fine- 
looking,  and  evidently  wealthy,  old  Mr.  Forsyte.  She 
did  not  mix  freely  with  people — to  mix  freely  with  people 
was  not  June's  habit — but  she  formed  some  friendships, 
and  notably  one  in  the  Rhone  Valley,  with  a  French  girl 
who  was  dying  of  consumption. 

Determining  at  once  that  her  friend  should  not  die,  she 
forgot,  in  the  institution  of  a  campaign  against  Death, 
much  of  her  own  trouble. 

Old  Jolyon  watched  the  new  intimacy  with  relief  and 
disapproval ;  for  this  additional  proof  that  her  life  was  to 
be  passed  amongst  "lame  ducks"  worried  him.  Would 


Meeting  at  the  Botanical  311 

she  never  make   a  friendship   or  take   an  interest  in 
something  that  would  be  of  real  benefit  to  her  ? 

"Taking  up  with  a  parcel  of  foreigners,"  he  called  it. 
He  often,  however,  brought  some  grapes  or  roses,  and 
presented  them  to  this  "  Mam'zelle  "  with  an  ingratiating 
twinkle. 

Towards  the  end  of  September,  in  spite  of  June's 
disapproval,  Mademoiselle  Vigor  breathed  her  last  in  the 
little  hotel  at  St.  Luc,  to  which  they  had  moved  her;  and 
June  took  her  defeat  so  deeply  to  heart  that  old  Jolyon 
carried  her  away  to  Paris.  Here,  in  contemplation 
of  the  Venus  de  Milo  and  the  Madeleine,  she  shook  off 
her  depression,  and  when,  towards  the  middle  of  Oc- 
tober, they  returned  to  town,  her  grandfather  believed 
that  he  had  effected  a  cure. 

No  sooner,  however,  had  they  established  themselves  in 
Stanhope  Gate  than  he  perceived  to  his  dismay  a  return 
of  her  old  absorbed  and  brooding  manner.  She  would  sit, 
staring  in  front  of  her,  her  chin  on  her  hand,  like  a  little 
Norse  spirit,  grim  and  intent,  while  all  around  in  the 
electric  light,  then  just  installed,  shone  the  great  drawing- 
room  brocaded  up  to  the  frieze,  full  of  furniture  from 
Baple  &  Pullbred's.  And  in  the  huge  gilt  mirror 
were  reflected  those  Dresden  china  groups  of  young  men 
in  tight  knee  breeches,  at  the  feet  of  full-bosomed  ladies 
nursing  on  their  laps  pet  lambs,  which  old  Jolyon  had 
bought  when  he  was  a  bachelor  and  thought  so  highly  of 
in  these  days  of  degenerate  taste.  He  was  a  man  of  most 
open  mind,  who,  more  than  any  Forsyte  of  them  all  had 
moved  with  the  times,  but  he  could  never  forget  that  he 
had  bought  these  groups  at  Jobson's,  and  given  a  lot  of 
money  for  them.  He  often  said  to  June,  with  a  sort  of 
disillusioned  contempt : 

"You  don't  care  about  them!  They  're  not  the  gim- 
crack  things  you  and  your  friends  like,  but  they  cost  me 


3I2  The  Man  of  Property 

seventy  pounds  ! "  He  was  not  a  man  who  allowed  his 
taste  to  be  warped  when  he  knew  for  solid  reasons  that  it 
was  sound. 

One  of  the  first  things  that  June  did  on  getting  home 
was  to  go  round  to  Timothy's.  She  persuaded  herself 
that  it  was  her  duty  to  call  there,  and  cheer  him  with 
an  account  of  all  her  travels;  but  in  reality  she  went 
because  she  knew  of  no  other  place  where,  by  some 
random  speech,  or  roundabout  question,  she  could  glean 
news  of  Bosinney. 

They  received  her  most  cordially:  And  how  was  her 
dear  grandfather?  He  had  not  been  to  see  them  since 
May.  Her  Uncle  Timothy  was  very  poorly,  he  had  had  a 
lot  of  trouble  with  the  chimney-sweep  in  his  bedroom; 
the  stupid  man  had  let  the  soot  down  the  chimney!  It 
had  quite  upset  her  uncle. 

June  sat  there  a  long  time,  dreading,  yet  passionately 
hoping,  that  they  would  speak  of  Bosinney. 

But  paralysed  by  unaccountable  discretion,  Mrs. 
Septimus  Small  let  fall  no  word,  neither  did  she  question 
June  about  him.  In  desperation  the  girl  asked  at  last 
whether  Soames  and  Irene  were  in  town — she  had  not  yet 
been  to  see  any  one. 

It  was  Aunt  Hester  who  replied:  Oh,  yes,  they  were 
in  town,  they  had  not  been  away  at  all.  There  was  some 
little  difficulty  about  the  house,  she  believed.  June  had 
heard,  no  doubt !  She  had  better  ask  her  Aunt  Juley  ! 

June  turned  to  Mrs.  Small,  who  sat  upright  in  her 
chair,  her  hands  clasped,  her  face  covered  with  innumer- 
able pouts.  In  answer  to  the  girl's  look  she  maintained  a 
strange  silence,  and  when  she  spoke  it  was  to  ask  June 
whether  she  had  worn  night-socks  up  in  those  high  hotels 
where  it  must  be  so  cold  of  a  night. 

June  answered  that  she  had  not,  she  hated  the  stuffy 
things;  and  rose  to  leave. 


Meeting  at  the  Botanical  313 

Mrs.  Small's  infallibly  chosen  silence  was  far  more  omi- 
nous to  her  than  anything  that  could  have  been  said. 

Before  half  an  hour  was  over  she  had  dragged  the  truth 
from  Mrs.  Baynes  in  Lowndes  Square,  that  Soames  was 
bringing  an  action  against  Bosinney  over  the  decoration 
of  the  house. 

Instead  of  disturbing  her,  the  news  had  a  strangely 
calming  effect ;  as  though  she  saw  in  the  prospect  of  this 
struggle  new  hope  for  herself.  She  learned  that  the  case 
was  expected  to  come  on  in  about  a  month,  and  there 
seemed  little  or  no  prospect  of  Bosinney's  success. 

"And  whatever  he'll  do  I  can't  think,"  said  Mrs. 
Baynes;  "it's  very  dreadful  for  him,  you  know — he's 
got  no  money — he's  very  hard  up.  And  we  can't  help 
him,  I  'm  sure.  I  'm  told  the  money-lenders  won't  lend 
if  you  have  no  security,  and  he  has  none — none  at  all." 

Her  embonpoint  had  increased  of  late ;  she  was  in  the 
full  swing  of  autumn  organisation,  her  writing-table 
literally  strewn  with  the  menus  of  charity  functions. 
She  looked  meaningly  at  June,  with  her  round  eyes 
of  parrot-grey. 

The  sudden  flush  that  rose  on  the  girl's  intent  young 
face — she  must  have  seen  spring  up  before  her  a  great 
hope — the  sudden  sweetness  of  her  smile,  often  came 
back  to  Lady  Baynes  in  after  years  (Baynes  was  knighted 
when  he  built  that  public  Museum  of  Art  which  has  given 
so  much  employment  to  officials,  and  so  little  pleasure 
to  those  working  classes  for  whom  it  was  designed). 

The  memory  of  that  change,  vivid  and  touching,  like 
the  breaking  open  of  a  flower,  or  the  first  sun  after  long 
winter,  the  memory,  too,  of  all  that  came  after,  often 
intruded  itself,  unaccountably,  inopportunely  on  Lady 
Baynes,  when  her  mind  was  set  upon  the  most  important 
things. 

This  was  the  very  afternoon  of  the  day  that  young 


3 14  The  Man  of  Property 

Jolyon  witnessed  the  meeting  in  the  Botanical  Gardens, 
and  on  this  day,  too,  old  Jolyon  paid  a  visit  to  his  solici- 
tors, Forsyte,  Bustard,  &  Forsyte,  in  the  Poultry. 
Soames  was  not  in,  he  had  gone  down  to  Somerset  House ; 
Bustard  was  buried  up  to  the  hilt  in  papers  and  that  in- 
accessible apartment,  where  he  was  judiciously  placed, 
in  order  that  he  might  do  as  much  work  as  possible; 
but  James  was  in  the  front  office,  biting  a  finger,  and 
lugubriously  turning  over  the  pleadings  in  Forsyte  v. 
Bosinney. 

This  sound  lawyer  had  only  a  sort  of  luxurious  dread 
of  the  "nice  point,"  enough  to  set  up  a  pleasurable  feeling 
of  fuss ;  for  his  good  practical  sense  told  him  that  if  he 
himself  were  on  the  Bench  he  would  not  pay  much  atten- 
tion to  it.  But  he  was  afraid  that  this  Bosinney  would 
go  bankrupt  and  Soames  would  have  to  find  the  money 
after  all,  and  costs  into  the  bargain.  And  behind  this 
tangible  dread  there  was  always  that  intangible  trouble 
lurking  in  the  background,  intricate,  dim,  scandalous, 
like  a  bad  dream,  and  of  which  this  action  was  but  an 
outward  and  visible  sign. 

He  raised  his  head  as  old  Jolyon  came  in,  and  muttered : 
"How  are  you,  Jolyon?  Have  n't  seen  you  for  an  age. 
You've  been  to  Switzerland,  they  tell  me.  This  young 
Bosinney,  he 's  got  himself  into  a  mess.  I  knew  how  it 
would  be!'*  He  held  out  the  papers,  regarding  his  elder 
brother  with  nervous  gloom. 

Old  Jolyon  read  them  in  silence,  and  while  he  read 
them  James  looked  at  the  floor,  biting  his  fingers  the 
while. 

Old  Jolyon  pitched  them  down  at  last,  and  they  fell 
with  a  thump  amongst  a  mass  of  affidavits  "in  re  Bun- 
combe, deceased,"  one  of  the  many  branches  of  that 
parent  and  profitable  tree,  "Fryer  v.  Forsyte." 

"I  don't  know  what  Soames  is  about,"  he  said    "to 


Meeting  at  the  Botanical  315 

make  a  fuss  over  a  few  hundred  pounds.  I  thought  he 
was  a  man  of  property." 

James's  long  upper  lip  twitched  angrily;  he  could  not 
bear  his  son  to  be  attacked  in  such  a  spot. 

"It's  not  the  money "  he  began,  but  meeting  his 

brother's  glance,  direct,  shrewd,  judicial,  he  stopped. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"I've  come  in  for  my  will,"  said  old  Jolyon  at  last, 
tugging  at  his  moustache. 

James 's  curiosity  was  roused  at  once.  Perhaps  noth- 
ing in  this  life  was  more  stimulating  to  him  than  a  will ; 
it  was  the  supreme  deal  with  property,  the  final  inventory 
of  a  man's  belongings,  the  last  word  on  what  he  was 
worth.  He  sounded  the  bell. 

"Bring  in  Mr.  Jolyon 's  will,"  he  said  to  an  anxious, 
dark-haired  clerk. 

* '  You  going  to  make  some  alterations  ? ' '  And  through 
his  mind  there  flashed  the  thought:  "Now,  am  I  worth 
as  much  as  he?" 

Old  Jolyon  put  the  will  in  his  breast  pocket,  and  James 
twisted  his  long  legs  regretfully. 

"You've  made  some  nice  purchases  lately,  they  tell 
me,"  he  said. 

"  I  don 't  know  where  you  get  your  information  from, " 
answered  old  Jolyon  sharply.  "When's  this  action 
coming  on?  Next  month?  I  can't  tell  what  you've 
got  in  your  minds.  You  must  manage  your  own  affairs ; 
but  if  you  take  my  advice,  you  '11  settle  it  out  of  court. 
Good-bye!"  With  a  cold  handshake  he  was  gone. 

James,  his  fixed  grey-blue  eye  cork-screwing  round 
some  secret  anxious  image,  began  again  to  bite  his  finger. 

Old  Jolyon  took  his  will  to  the  offices  of  the  New 
Colliery  Company,  and  sat  down  in  the  empty  Board 
Room  to  read  it  through.  He  answered  "  Down-by-the- 
starn"  Hemmings  so  tartly  when  the  latter,  seeing  his 


316  The  Man  of  Property 

Chairman  seated  there,  entered  with  the  new  Superin- 
tendent's first  report,  that  the  Secretary  withdrew  with 
regretful  dignity ;  and  sending  for  the  transfer  clerk,  blew 
him  up  till  the  poor  youth  knew  not  where  to  look. 

It  was  not — by  George — as  he  (Down-by-the-starn) 
would  have  him  know,  for  a  whipper-snapper  of  a  young 
fellow  like  him,  to  come  down  to  that  office,  and  think 
that  he  was  God  Almighty.  He  (Down-by-the-starn)  had 
been  head  of  that  office  for  more  years  than  a  boy  like 
him  could  count,  and  if  he  thought  that  when  he  had 
finished  all  his  work,  he  could  sit  there  doing  nothing,  he 
did  not  know  him,  Hemmings  (Down-by-the-starn),  and 
so  forth. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  green  baize  door  old  Jolyon  sat 
at  the  long,  mahogany-and-leather  board  table,  his  thick, 
loose-jointed,  gold-rimmed  eye-glasses  perched  on  the 
bridge  of  his  nose,  his  gold  pencil  moving  down  the 
clauses  of  his  will. 

It  was  a  simple  affair,  for  there  were  none  of  those 
vexatious  little  legacies  and  donations  to  charities 
which  fritter  away  a  man's  possessions,  and  damage  the 
majestic  effect  of  that  little  paragraph  in  the  morning 
papers  accorded  to  Forsytes  who  die  with  a  hundred  thou- 
sand pounds. 

A  simple  affair.  Just  a  bequest  to  his  son  of  twenty 
thousand,  and  "  as  to  the  residue  of  my  property  of  what- 
soever kind,  whether  realty,  or  personalty,  or  partaking 
of  the  nature  of  either — upon  trust  to  pay  the  proceeds, 
rents,  annual  produce  dividends,  or  interest  thereof  and 
thereon  to  my  said  grand-daughter  June  Forsyte,  or  her 
assigns,  during  her  life  to  be  for  her  sole  use  and  benefit 
and  without,  etc.  .  .  .  and  from  and  after  her  death 
or  decease,  upon  trust  to  convey,  assign,  transfer,  or 
make  over  the  said  last-mentioned  lands,  hereditaments, 
premises,  trust  money,  stocks,  funds,  investments  and 


Meeting  at  the  Botanical  317 

securities,  or  such  as  shall  then  stand  for  and  represent 
the  same  unto  such  person  or  persons  whether  one  or  more, 
for  such  intents,  purposes,  and  uses,  and  generally  in  such 
manner,  way,  and  form  in  all  respects  as  the  said  June 
Forsyte,  notwithstanding  coverture  shall,  by  her  last  Will 
and  Testament  or  any  writing  or  writings  in  the  nature  of 
a  will,  testament,  or  testamentary  disposition  to  be  by  her 
duly  made,  signed,  and  published,  direct,  appoint,  or 
make  over,  give  and  dispose  of  the  same.  And  in  default 
etc.  .  .  .  Provided  always  .  .  ."  and  so  on,  in  seven 
folios  of  brief  and  simple  phraseology. 

The  will  had  been  drawn  by  James  in  his  palmy  days. 
He  had  foreseen  almost  every  contingency. 

Old  Jolyon  sat  a  long  time  reading  this  will ;  at  last  he 
took  half  a  sheet  of  paper  from  the  rack,  and  made  a 
prolonged  pencil  note;  then  buttoning  up  the  will,  he 
caused  a  cab  to  be  called  and  drove  to  the  offices  of  Para- 
mor  &  Herring,  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  Jack  Herring 
was  dead,  but  his  nephew  was  still  in  the  firm,  and  old 
Jolyon  was  closeted  with  him  for  half  an  hour. 

He  had  kept  the  hansom,  and  on  coming  out,  gave  the 
driver  the  address — 3  Wistaria  Avenue. 

He  felt  a  strange,  slow  satisfaction,  as  though  he  had 
scored  a  victory  over  James  and  the  man  of  property. 
They  should  not  poke  their  noses  into  his  affairs  any 
more;  he  had  just  cancelled  their  trusteeships  of  his  will ; 
he  would  take  the  whole  of  his  business  out  of  their  hands, 
and  put  it  into  the  hands  of  young  Herring,  and  he 
would  move  the  business  of  his  companies  too.  If  that 
young  Soames  were  such  a  man  of  property,  he  would 
never  miss  a  thousand  a  year  or  so ;  and  under  his  great 
white  moustache  old  Jolyon  grimly  smiled.  He  felt 
that  what  he  was  doing  was  in  the  nature  of  retributive 
justice,  richly  deserved. 

Slowly,   surely,  with  the   secret   inner  process  that 


318  The  Man  of  Property 

works  the  destruction  of  an  old  tree,  the  poison  of  the 
wounds  to  his  happiness,  his  will,  his  pride,  had  corroded 
the  comely  edifice  of  his  philosophy.  Life  had  worn  him 
down  on  one  side,  till,  like  that  family  of  which  he  was 
the  head,  he  had  lost  balance. 

To  him,  borne  northwards  towards  his  son's  house,  the 
thought  of  the  new  disposition  of  property,  which  he  had 
just  set  in  motion,  appeared  vaguely  in  the  light  of  a 
stroke  of  punishment,  levelled  at  that  family  and  that 
society,  of  which  James  and  his  son  seemed  to  him  the 
representatives.  He  had  made  a  restitution  to  young 
Jolyon,  and  restitution  to  young  Jolyon  satisfied  his 
secret  craving  for  revenge — revenge  against  Time,  sorrow, 
and  interference,  again  stall  that  incalculable  sum  of  dis- 
approval that  had  been  bestowed  by  the  world  for  fifteen 
years  on  his  only  son.  It  presented  itself  as  the  one 
possible  way  of  asserting  once  more  the  domination  of 
his  will;  of  forcing  James,  and  Soames,  and  the  family, 
and  all  those  hidden  masses  of  Forsytes — a  great  stream 
rolling  against  the  single  dam  of  his  obstinacy — to 
recognise  once  and  for  all  that  he  would  be  master.  It 
was  sweet  to  think  that  at  last  he  was  going  to  make  the 
boy  a  richer  man  by  far  than  that  son  of  James,  that 
"man  of  property."  And  it  was  sweet  to  give  to  Jo,  for 
he  loved  his  son. 

Neither  young  Jolyon  nor  his  wife  was  in  (young 
Jolyon  indeed  was  not  back  from  the  Botanical),  but 
the  little  maid  told  him  that  she  expected  the  master  at 
any  moment. 

"He's  always  at  'ome  to  tea,  sir,  to  play  with  the 
children." 

Old  Jolyon  said  he  would  wait ;  and  sat  down  patiently 
enough  in  the  faded,  shabby  drawing-room,  where,  now 
that  the  summer  chintzes  were  removed,  the  old  chairs 
and  sofas  revealed  all  their  threadbare  deficiencies.  He 


Meeting  at  the  Botanical  319 

longed  to  send  for  the  children;  to  have  them  there 
beside  him,  their  supple  bodies  against  his  knees;  to  hear 
Jolly's:  "Hallo,  Gran!"  and  see  his  rush;  and  feel 
Holly's  soft  little  hand  stealing  up  against  his  cheek. 
But  he  would  not.  There  was  solemnity  in  what  he  had 
come  to  do,  and  until  it  was  over  he  would  not  play.  He 
amused  himself  by  thinking  how  with  two  strokes  of  his 
pen  he  was  going  to  restore  the  look  of  caste  so  con- 
spicuously absent  from  everything  in  that  little  house; 
how  he  could  fill  these  rooms,  or  others  in  some  larger 
mansion,  with  triumphs  of  art  from  Baple  &  Pull- 
bred's;  how  he  could  send  little  Jolly  to  Harrow  and 
Oxford  (he  no  longer  had  faith  in  Eton  and  Cambridge, 
for  his  son  had  been  there) ;  how  he  could  procure  little 
Holly  the  best  musical  instruction,  the  child  had  a  re- 
markable aptitude. 

As  these  visions  crowded  before  him,  causing  emotion 
to  swell  his  heart,  he  rose,  and  stood  at  the  window, 
looking  down  into  the  little  walled  strip  of  garden,  where 
the  pear-tree,  bare  of  leaves  before  its  time,  stood  with 
gaunt  branches  in  the  slow  gathering  mist  of  the  autumn 
afternoon.  The  dog  Balthasar,  his  tail  curled  tightly  over 
a  piebald,  furry,  back,  was  walking  at  the  farther  end, 
sniffing  at  the  plants,  and  at  intervals  placing  his  leg 
for  support  against  the  wall. 

And  old  Jolyon  mused. 

What  pleasure  was  there  left  but  to  give?  It  was 
pleasant  to  give,  when  you  could  find  one  who  would  be 
thankful  for  what  you  gave — one  of  your  own  flesh  and 
blood !  There  was  no  such  satisfaction  to  be  had  out  of 
giving  to  those  who  did  not  belong  to  you,  to  those  who 
had  no  claim  on  you!  Such  giving  as  that  was  a  betrayal 
of  the  individualistic  convictions  and  actions  of  his  life, 
of  all  his  enterprise,  his  labour,  and  his  moderation,  of 
the  great  and  proud  fact  that,  like  tens  of  thousands  of 


320  The  Man  of  Property 

Forsytes  before  him,  tens  of  thousands  in  the  present, 
tens  of  thousands  in  the  future,  he  had  always  made  his 
own,  and  held  his  own,  in  the  world. 

And,  while  he  stood  there  looking  down  on  the  smut- 
covered  foliage  of  the  laurels,  the  black-stained  grass- 
plot,  the  progress  of  the  dog  Balthasar,  all  the  suffering 
of  the  fifteen  years  that  he  had  been  baulked  of  legiti- 
mate enjoyment  mingled  its  gall  with  the  sweetness  of 
the  approaching  moment. 

Young  Jolyon  came  at  last,  pleased  with  his  work,  and 
fresh  from  long  hours  in  the  open  air.  On  hearing  that 
his  father  was  in  the  drawing-room,  he  inquired  hur- 
riedly whether  Mrs.  Forsyte  was  at  home,  and  being  in- 
formed that  she  was  not,  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  Then 
putting  his  painting  materials  carefully  in  the  little 
coat-closet  out  of  sight,  he  went  in. 

With  characteristic  decision  old  Jolyon  came  at  once 
to  the  point.  "I've  been  altering  my  arrangements, 
Jo,"  he  said.  "You  can  cut  your  coat  a  bit  longer  in  the 
future — I  'm  settling  a  thousand  a  year  on  you  at  once. 
June  will  have  fifty  thousand  at  my  death ;  and  you  the 
rest.  That  dog  of  yours  is  spoiling  the  garden.  I 
shouldn't  keep  a  dog,  if  I  were  you!" 

The  dog  Balthasar,  seated  in  the  centre  of  the  lawn, 
was  examining  his  tail. 

Young  Jolyon  looked  at  the  animal,  but  saw  him 
dimly,  for  his  eyes  were  misty. 

"It  won't  come  far  short  of  a  hundred  thousand,  my 
boy,"  said  old  Jolyon;  "I  thought  you'd  better  know. 
I  have  n't  much  longer  to  live  at  my  age.  I  sha'n't  allude 
to  it  again.  How 's  your  wife  ?  and — give  her  my  love. " 

Young  Jolyon  put  his  hand  on  his  father's  shoulder, 
and,  as  neither  spoke,  the  episode  closed. 

Having  seen  his  father  into  a  hansom,  young  Jolyon 
came  back  to  the  drawing-room  and  stood,  where  old 


Meeting  at  the  Botanical  321 

Jolyon  had  stood,  looking  down  on  the  little  garden. 
He  tried  to  realise  all  that  this  meant  to  him,  and,  For- 
syte that  he  was,  vistas  of  property  were  opened  out  in 
his  brain ;  the  years  of  half  rations  through  which  he  had 
passed  had  not  sapped  his  natural  instincts.  In  extremely 
practical  form,  he  thought  of  travel,  of  his  wife's  costume, 
the  children's  education,  a  pony  for  Jolly,  a  thousand 
things;  but  in  the  midst  of  all  he  thought,  too,  of  Bosinney 
and  his  mistress,  and  the  broken  song  of  the  thrush. 
Joy — tragedy !  Which  ?  Which  ? 

The  old  past — the  poignant,  suffering,  passionate, 
wonderful  past,  that  no  money  could  buy,  that  nothing 
could  restore  in  all  its  burning  sweetness — had  come  back 
before  him. 

When  his  wife  came  in  he  went  straight  up  to  her  and 
took  her  in  his  arms ;  and  for  a  long  time  he  stood  without 
speaking,  his  eyes  closed,  pressing  her  to  him,  while  she 
looked  at  him  with  a  wondering,  adoring,  doubting  look 
in  her  eyes. 
•I 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

VOYAGE   INTO  THE   INFERNO 

r  I  ^  HE  morning  after  a  certain  night  on  which  Soames 
I        at  last  asserted  his  rights  and  acted  like  a  man,  he 
breakfasted  alone. 

He  breakfasted  by  gaslight,  the  fog  of  late  November 
wrapping  the  town  as  in  some  monstrous  blanket  till  the 
trees  of  the  Square  even  were  barely  visible  from  the 
dining-room  window. 

He  ate  steadily,  but  at  times  a  sensation  as  though  he 
could  not  swallow  attacked  him.  Had  he  been  right  to 
yield  to  his  overmastering  hunger  of  the  night  before,  and 
break  down  the  resistance  which  he  had  suffered  now  too 
long  from  this  woman  who  was  his  lawful  and  solemnly 
constituted  helpmate  ? 

He  was  strangely  haunted  by  the  recollection  of  her 
face,  from  before  which,  to  soothe  her,  he  had  tried  to 
pull  her  hands — of  her  terrible  smothered  sobbing,  the 
like  of  which  he  had  never  heard,  and  still  seemed  to  hear ; 
and  he  was  still  haunted  by  the  odd,  intolerable  feeling  of 
remorse  and  shame  he  had  felt,  as  he  stood  looking  at  her 
by  the  flame  of  the  single  candle,  before  silently  slinking 
away. 

And  somehow,  now  that  he  had  acted  like  this,  he  was 
surprised  at  himself. 

Two  nights  before,  at  Winifred  Dartie's,  he  had  taken 
Mrs.  MacAnder  in  to  dinner.  She  had  said  to  him, 

322 


Voyage  into  the  Inferno  323 

looking  in  his  face  with  her  sharp,  greenish  eyes:    "And 
so  your  wife  is  a  great  friend  of  that  Mr.  Bosinney's?" 

Not  deigning  to  ask  what  she  meant,  he  had  brooded 
over  her  words. 

They  had  roused  in  him  a  fierce  jealousy,  which,  with 
the  peculiar  perversion  of  this  instinct,  had  turned  to 
fiercer  desire. 

Without  the  incentive  of  Mrs.  MacAnder's  words  he  < 
might  never  have  done  what  he  had  done.     Without 
their  incentive  and  the  accident  of  finding  his  wife's 
door  for  once  unlocked,  which  had  enabled  him  to  steal 
upon  her  asleep. 

Slumber  had  removed  his  doubts,  but  the  morning 
brought  them  again.  One  thought  comforted  him:  No 
one  would  know — it  was  not  the  sort  of  thing  that  she 
would  speak  about. 

And,  indeed,  when  the  vehicle  of  his  daily  business 
life,  that  needed  so  imperatively  the  grease  of  clear  and 
practical  thought,  started  rolling  once  more  with  the 
reading  of  his  letters,  those  nightmare-like  doubts  began 
to  assume  less  extravagant  importance  at  the  back  of  his 
mind.  The  incident  was  really  not  of  great  moment; 
women  made  a  fuss  about  it  in  books;  but  in  the  cool 
judgment  of  right-thinking  men,  of  men  of  the  world, 
of  such  as  he  recollected  often  received  praise  in  the 
Divorce  Court,  he  had  but  done  his  best  to  sustain  the 
sanctity  of  marriage,  to  prevent  her  from  abandoning 
her  duty,  possibly,  if  she  were  still  seeing  Bosinney, 
from No.  He  did  not  regret  it. 

Now  that  the  first  step  towards  reconciliation  had 
been  taken,  the  rest  would  be  comparatively — 
comparatively 

He  rose  and  walked  to  the  window.  His  nerve  had 
been  shaken.  The  sound  of  smothered  sobbing  was  in 
his  ears  again.  He  could  not  get  rid  of  it. 


324  The  Man  of  Property 

He  put  on  his  fur  coat,  and  went  out  into  the  fog; 
having  to  go  into  the  City,  he  took  the  underground 
railway  from  Sloane  Square  station. 

In  his  corner  of  the  first-class  compartment  filled  with 
City  men  the  smothered  sobbing  still  haunted  him,  so  he 
opened  the  Times  with  the  rich  crackle  that  drowns  all 
lesser  sounds,  and,  barricaded  behind  it,  set  himself 
steadily  to  con  the  news. 

He  read  that  a  Recorder  had  charged  a  grand  jury  on 
the  previous  day  with  a  more  than  usually  long  list  of 
offences.  He  read  of  three  murders,  five  manslaughters, 
seven  arsons,  and  as  many  as  eleven — a  surprisingly 
high  number — rapes,  in  addition  to  many  less  conspicuous 
crimes,  to  be  tried  during  a  coming  Sessions;  and  from 
one  piece  of  news  he  went  on  to  another,  keeping  the 
paper  well  before  his  face. 

And  still,  inseparable  from  his  reading,  was  the  memory 
of  Irene's  tear-stained  face,  and  the  sounds  from  her 
broken  heart. 

The  day  was  a  busy  one,  including,  in  addition  to  the 
ordinary  affairs  of  his  practice,  a  visit  to  his  brokers, 
Messrs.  Grin  &  Grinning,  to  give  them  instructions 
to  sell  his  shares  in  the  New  Colliery  Co.,  Ltd.,  whose 
business  he  suspected,  rat  her  than  knew,  was  stagnating 
(this  enterprise  afterwards  slowly  declined,  and  was 
ultimately  sold  for  a  song  to  an  American  syndicate) ; 
and  a  long  conference  at  Waterbuck,  Q.C.  's.  chambers, 
attended  by  Boulter,  by  Fiske,  the  junior  counsel,  and 
Waterbuck,  Q.C.,  himself. 

The  case  of  Forsyte  v.  Bosinney  was  expected  to  be 
reached  on  the  morrow,  before  Mr.  Justice  Bentham. 

Mr.  Justice  Bentham,  a  man  of  common-sense  rather 
than  too  great  legal  knowledge,  was  considered  to  be 
about  the  best  man  they  could  have  to  try  the  action. 
He  was  a  "strong"  judge. 


Voyage  into  the  Inferno  325 

Waterbuck,  Q.C.,  in  pleasing  conjunction  with  an 
almost  rude  neglect  of  Boulter  and  Fiske,  paid  to  Soames 
a  good  deal  of  attention,  by  instinct  or  the  sounder  evi- 
dence of  rumour,  feeling  him  to  be  a  man  of  property. 

He  held  with  remarkable  consistency  to  the  opinion  he 
had  already  expressed  in  writing,  that  the  issue  would 
depend  to  a  great  extent  on  the  evidence  given  at  the 
trial,  and  in  a  few  well-directed  remarks  he  advised 
Soames  not  to  be  too  careful  in  giving  that  evidence. 
"A  little  bluffness,  Mr.  Forsyte,"  he  said,  "a  little 
bluff  ness,"  and  after  he  had  spoken  he  laughed  firmly, 
closed  his  lips  tight,  and  scratched  his  head,  just  below 
where  he  had  pushed  his  wig  back,  for  all  the  world 
like  the  gentleman-farmer  for  whom  he  loved  to  be  taken. 
He  was  considered  perhaps  the  leading  man  in  breach  of 
promise  cases. 

Soames  used  the  underground  again  in  going  home. 

The  fog  was  worse  than  ever  at  Sloane  Square  station. 
Through  the  still,  thick  blurr,  men  groped  in  and  out; 
women,  very  few,  grasped  their  reticules  to  their  bosoms 
and  handkerchiefs  to  their  mouths;  crowned  with  the 
weird  excrescence  of  the  driver,  haloed  by  a  vague  glow 
of  lamplight  that  seemed  to  drown  in  vapour  before  it 
reached  the  pavement,  cabs  loomed  dim-shaped  ever  and 
again,  and  discharged  citizens  bolting  like  rabbits  to  their 
burrows. 

And  these  shadowy  figures,  wrapped  each  in  his  own 
little  shroud  of  fog,  took  no  notice  of  each  other.  In  the 
great  warren,  each  rabbit  for  himself,  especially  those 
clothed  in  the  more  expensive  fur,  who,  afraid  of  carriages 
on  foggy  days,  are  driven  underground. 

One  figure,  however,  not  far  from  Soames,  waited  at  the 
station  door. 

Some  buccaneer  or  lover,  of  whom  each  Forsyte 
thought :  ' '  Poor  devil !  looks  as  if  he  were  having  a  bad 


326  The  Man  of  Property 

time!"  Their  kind  hearts  beat  a  stroke  faster  for  that 
poor,  waiting,  anxious  lover  in  the  fog;  but  they  hurried 
by,  well  knowing  that  they  had  neither  time  nor  money 
to  spare  for  any  suffering  but  their  own. 

Only  a  policeman,  patrolling  slowly  and  at  intervals, 
took  an  interest  in  that  waiting  figure,  the  brim  of  whose 
slouch  hat  half  hid  a  face  reddened  by  the  cold,  all  thin 
and  haggard,  over  which  a  hand  stole  now  and  again  to 
smooth  away  anxiety,  or  renew  the  resolution  that  kept 
him  waiting  there.  But  the  waiting  lover  (if  lover  he 
were)  was  used  to  policemen's  scrutiny,  or  too  absorbed 
in  his  anxiety,  for  he  never  flinched.  A  hardened  case, 
accustomed  to  long  trysts;  to  anxiety,  and  fog,  and  cold, 
if  only  his  mistress  came  at  last.  Foolish  lover!  Fogs 
last  until  the  spring;  there  is  also  snow  and  rain,  no 
comfort  anywhere;  gnawing  fear  if  you  bring  her  out, 
gnawing  fear  if  you  bid  her  stay  at  home! 

* '  Serve  him  right ;  he  should  arrange  his  affairs  better ! ' ' 

So  any  respectable  Forsyte.  Yet,  if  that  sounder 
citizen  could  have  listened  at  the  waiting  lover's  heart, 
out  there  in  the  fog  and  the  cold,  he  would  have  said 
again:  "Yes,  pot»r  devil!  he's  having  a  bad  time!" 

Soames  got  into  his  cab,  and,  with  the  glass  down,  crept 
along  Sloane  Street,  and  so  along  the  Brompton  Road, 
and  home.  He  reached  his  house  at  five. 

His  wife  was  not  in.  She  had  gone  out  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  before.  Out  at  such  a  time  of  night,  into  this 
terrible  fog!  What  was  the  meaning  of  that? 

He  sat  by  the  dining-room  fire,  with  the  door  open, 
disturbed  to  the  soul,  trying  to  read  the  evening  paper. 
A  book  was  no  good — in  daily  papers  alone  was  any 
narcotic  to  such  worry  as  his.  From  the  customary 
events  recorded  in  the  journal  he  drew  some  comfort. 
"Suicide  of  an  actress" — "Grave  indisposition  of  a 
Statesman"  (that  chronic  sufferer) — "Divorce  of  an 


Voyage  into  the  Inferno  327 

army  officer" — "Fire  in  a  colliery" — he  read  them  all. 
They  helped  him  a  little — prescribed  by  the  greatest  of 
all  doctors,  our  natural  taste. 

It  was  nearly  seven  when  he  heard  her  come  in. 

The  incident  of  the  night  before  had  long  lost  its 
importance  under  stress  of  anxiety  at  her  strange  sortie 
into  the  fog.  But  now  that  Irene  was  home,  the  memory 
of  her  broken-hearted  sobbing  came  back  to  him,  and 
he  felt  nervous  at  the  thought  of  facing  her. 

She  was  already  on  the  stairs ;  her  grey  fur  coat  hung  to 
her  knees,  its  high  collar  almost  hid  her  face,  she  wore  a 
thick  veil. 

She  neither  turned  to  look  at  him  nor  spoke.  No 
ghost  or  stranger  could  have  passed  more  silently. 

Bilson  came  to  lay  dinner,  and  told  him  that  Mrs. 
Forsyte  was  not  coming  down ;  she  was  having  the  soup 
in  her  room. 

For  once  Soames  did  not  "change";  it  was,  perhaps, 
the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  sat  down  to  dinner 
with  soiled  cuffs,  and,  not  even  noticing  them,  he  brooded 
long  over  his  wine.  He  sent  Bilson  to  light  a  fire  in  his 
picture-room,  and  presently  went  up  there  himself. 

Turning  on  the  gas,  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  as  though 
amongst  these  treasures,  the  backs  of  which  confronted 
him  in  stacks,  around  the  little  room,  he  had  found  at 
length  his  peace  of  mind.  He  went  straight  up  to  the 
greatest  treasure  of  them  all,  an  undoubted  Turner,  and, 
carrying  it  to  the  easel,  turned  its  face  to  the  light. 
There  had  been  a  movement  in  Turners,  but  he  had  not 
been  able  to  make  up  his  mind  to  part  with  it.  He 
stood  for  a  long  time,  his  pale,  clean-shaven  face  poked 
forward  above  his  stand-up  collar,  looking  at  the  picture 
as  though  he  were  adding  it  up;  a  wistful  expression 
came  into  his  eyes;  he  found,  perhaps,  that  it  came 
to  too  little.  He  took  it  down  from  the  easel  to  put  it 


328  The  Man  of  Property 

back  against  the  wall;  but,  in  crossing  the  room,  stopped, 
for  he  seemed  to  hear  sobbing. 

It  was  nothing — only  the  sort  of  thing  that  had  been 
bothering  him  in  the  morning.  And  soon  after,  putting 
the  highguard  before  the  blazing  fire,  he  stole  down -stairs. 

Fresh  for  the  morrow!  was  his  thought.  It  was  long 
before  he  went  to  sleep. 

It  is  now  to  George  Forsyte  that  the  mind  must 
turn  for  light  on  the  events  of  that  fog-engulfed 
afternoon. 

The  wittiest  and  most  sportsmanlike  of  the  Forsytes 
had  passed  the  day  reading  a  novel  in  the  paternal 
mansion  at  Princes '  Gardens.  Since  a  recent  crisis  in  his 
financial  affairs  he  had  been  kept  on  parole  by  Roger, 
and  compelled  to  reside  "at  home." 

Towards  five  o'clock  he  went  out,  and  took  train  at 
South  Kensington  Station  (for  every  one  to-day  went 
Underground).  His  intention  was  to  dine,  and  pass  the 
evening  playing  billiards  at  the  Red  Pottle — that  unique 
hostel,  neither  club,  hotel,  nor  good  gilt  restaurant. 

He  got  out  at  Charing  Cross,  choosing  it  in  preference 
to  his  more  usual  St.  James 's  Park,  that  he  might  reach 
Jermyn  Street  by  better  lighted  ways. 

On  the  platform  his  eyes — for  in  combination  with  a 
composed  and  fashionable  appearance  George  had  sharp 
eyes,  and  was  always  on  the  look-out  for  fillips  to  his 
sardonic  humour — his  eyes  were  attracted  by  a  man,  who, 
leaping  from  a  first-class  compartment,  staggered  rather 
than  walked  towards  the  exit. 

"So,  ho,  my  bird!"  said  George  to  himself;  "why, 
it's  'the  Buccaneer!"  and  he  put  his  big  figure 
on  the  trail.  Nothing  afforded  him  greater  amusement 
than  a  drunken  man. 

Bosinney,  who  wore  a  slouch  hat,  stopped  in  front  of 
him,  spun  round,  and  rushed  back  towards  the  carriage 


Voyage  into  the  Inferno  329 

he  had  just  left.  He  was  too  late.  A  porter  caught  him 
by  the  coat ;  the  train  was  already  moving  on. 

George's  practised  glance  caught  sight  of  the  face 
of  a  lady  clad  in  a  grey  fur  coat  at  the  carriage  win- 
dow. It  was  Mrs.  Soames — and  George  felt  that  this  was 
interesting ! 

And  now  he  followed  Bosinney  more  closely  than 
ever — up  the  stairs,  past  the  ticket  collector  into  the 
street.  In  that  progress,  however,  his  feelings  under- 
went a  change;  no  longer  merely  curious  and  amused, 
he  felt  sorry  for  the  poor  fellow  he  was  shadowing, 
"the  Buccaneer"  was  not  drunk,  but  seemed  to  be 
acting  under  the  stress  of  violent  emotion ;  he  was  talking 
to  himself,  and  all  that  George  could  catch  were  the 
words  "Oh,  God!"  Nor  did  he  appear  to  know  what  he 
was  doing,  or  where  going;  but  stared,  hesitated,  moved 
like  a  man  out  of  his  mind ;  and  from  being  merely  a 
joker  in  search  of  amusement,  George  felt  that  he  must 
see  the  poor  chap  through. 

He  had  "taken  the  knock" — "taken  the  knock!" 
And  he  wondered  what  on  earth  Mrs.  Soames  had  been 
saying,  what  on  earth  she  had  been  telling  him  in  the 
railway  carriage.  She  had  looked  bad  enough  herself! 
It  made  George  sorry  to  think  of  her  travelling  on  with 
her  trouble  all  alone. 

He  followed  close  behind  Bosinney 's  elbow — a  tall, 
burly  figure,  saying  nothing,  dodging  warily — and 
shadowed  him  out  into  the  fog.  There  was  something 
here  beyond  a  jest!  He  kept  his  head  admirably,  in 
spite  of  some  excitement,  for  in  addition  to  compassion, 
the  instincts  of  the  chase  were  roused  within  him. 

Bosinney  walked  right  out  into  the  thoroughfare — a 
vast  muffled  blackness,  where  a  man  could  not  see  six 
paces  before  him;  where,  all  around,  voices  or  whistles 
mocked  the  sense  of  direction;  and  sudden  shapes  came 


330  The  Man  of  Property 

rolling  slow  upon  them;  and  now  and  then  a  light 
showed  like  a  dim  island  in  an  infinite  dark  sea. 

And  fast  into  this  perilous  gulf  of  night  walked  Bosin- 
ney,  and  fast  after  him  walked  George.  If  the  fellow 
meant  to  put  his  "twopenny"  under  a  bus,  he  would 
stop  it  if  he  could !  Across  the  street  and  back  the  hunted 
creature  strode,  not  groping  as  other  men  were  groping 
in  that  gloom,  but  driven  forward  as  though  the  faithful 
George  behind  wielded  a  knout;  and  this  chase  after  a 
haunted  man  began  to  have  for  George  the  strangest 
fascination. 

But  it  was  now  that  the  affair  developed  in  a  way 
which  ever  afterwards  caused  it  to  remain  green  in  his 
mind.  Brought  to  a  stand-still  in  the  fog,  he  heard 
words  which  threw  a  sudden  light  on  these  proceedings. 
What  Mrs.  Soames  had  said  to  Bosinney  in  the  train  was 
now  no  longer  dark.  George  understood  from  those 
mutterings  that  Soames  had  exercised  his  rights  over 
an  estranged  and  unwilling  wife  in  the  greatest — the 
supreme  act  of  property. 

His  fancy  wandered  in  the  fields  of  this  situation;  it 
impressed  him;  he  guessed  something  of  the  anguish, 
the  sexual  confusion  and  horror  in  Bosinney 's  heart, 
and  he  thought.  "Yes,  it's  a  bit  thick!  I  don't 
wonder  the  poor  fellow  is  half  -cracked ! " 

He  had  run  his  quarry  to  earth  on  a  bench  under  one 
of  the  lions  in  Trafalgar  Square,  a  monster  sphynx 
astray  like  themselves  in  that  gulf  of  darkness.  Here, 
rigid  and  silent,  sat  Bosinney,  and  George,  in  whose 
patience  was  a  touch  of  strange  brotherliness,  took  his 
stand  behind.  He  was  not  lacking  in  a  certain  delicacy 
— a  sense  of  form — that  did  not  permit  him  to  intrude 
upon  this  tragedy,  and  he  waited,  quiet  as  the  lion  above, 
his  fur  collar  hitched  above  his  ears  concealing  the  fleshy 
redness  of  his  cheeks,  concealing  all  but  his  eyes  with 


Voyage  into  the  Inferno  331 

their  sardonic,  compassionate  stare.  And  men  kept 
passing  back  from  business  on  the  way  to  their  clubs — 
men  whose  figures  shrouded  in  cocoons  of  fog  came  into 
view  like  spectres,  and  like  spectres  vanished.  Then 
even  in  his  compassion  George's  Quilpish  humour  broke 
forth  in  a  sudden  longing  to  pluck  these  spectres  by  the 
sleeve,  and  say: 

"Hi,  you  Johnnies!  You  don't  often  see  a  show  like 
this!  Here's  a  poor  devil  whose  mistress  has  just  been 
telling  him  a  pretty  little  story  of  her  husband;  walk  up, 
walk  up!  He's  taken  the  knock,  you  see." 

In  fancy  he  saw  them  gaping  round  the  tortured  lover ; 
and  grinned  as  he  thought  of  some  respectable,  newly 
married  spectre  enabled  by  the  state  of  his  own  affections 
to  catch  an  inkling  of  what  was  going  on  within  Bosinney ; 
he  fancied  he  could  see  his  mouth  getting  wider  and 
wider,  and  the  fog  going  down  and  down.  For  in  George 
was  all  that  contempt  of  the  middle-class — especially 
of  the  married  middle-class — peculiar  to  the  wild  and 
sportsmanlike  spirits  in  its  ranks. 

But  he  began  to  be  bored.  Waiting  was  not  what  he 
had  bargained  for. 

"After  all,"  he  thought,  "the  poor  chap  will  get  over 
it;  not  the  first  time  such  a  thing  has  happened 
in  this  little  city!"  But  now  his  quarry  again  began 
muttering  words  of  violent  hate  and  anger.  And  fol- 
lowing a  sudden  impulse  George  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

Bosinney  spun  round. 

"Who  are  you?     What  do  you  want?" 

George  could  have  stood  it  well  enough  in  the  light 
of  the  gas  lamps,  in  the  light  of  that  e very-day  world 
of  which  he  was  so  hardy  a  connoisseur;  but  in  this  fog, 
where  all  was  gloomy  and  unreal,  where  nothing  had  that 
matter-of-fact  value  associated  by  Forsytes  with  earth, 


33 2  The  Man  of  Property 

he  was  a  victim  to  strange  qualms,  and  as  he  tried  to  stare 
back  into  the  eyes  of  this  maniac,  he  thought : 

"If  I  see  a  bobby,  I'll  hand  him  over;  he's  not  fit  to 
be  at  large." 

But  waiting  for  no  answer,  Bosinney  strode  off  into 
the  fog,  and  George  followed,  keeping  perhaps  a  little 
further  off,  yet  more  than  ever  set  on  tracking  him  down. 

"He  can't  go  on  long  like  this,"  he  thought.  "It's 
God's  own  miracle  he's  not  been  run  over  already." 
He  brooded  no  more  on  policemen,  a  sportsman's  sacred 
fire  alive  again  within  him. 

Into  a  denser  gloom  than  ever  Bosinney  held  on  at  a 
furious  pace ;  but  his  pursuer  perceived  more  method  in 
his  madness — he  was  clearly  making  his  way  westwards. 

"He's  really  going  for  Soames!"  thought  George. 
The  idea  was  attractive.  It  would  be  a  sporting  end 
to  such  a  chase.  He  had  always  disliked  his  cousin. 

The  shaft  of  a  passing  cab  brushed  against  his  shoulder 
and  made  him  leap  aside.  He  did  not  intend  to  be  killed 
for  the  Buccaneer,  or  any  one.  Yet,  with  hereditary 
tenacity,  he  stuck  to  the  trail  through  vapour  that 
blotted  out  everything  but  the  shadow  of  the  hunted  man 
and  the  dim  moon  of  the  nearest  lamp. 

Then  suddenly,  with  the  instinct  of  a  town-stroller, 
George  knew  himself  to  be  in  Piccadilly.  Here  he  could 
find  his  way  blindfold;  and  freed  from  the  strain  of 
geographical  uncertainty,  his  mind  returned  to  Bosin- 
ney's  trouble. 

Down  the  long  avenue  of  his  man-about-town  experi- 
ence, bursting,  as  it  were,  through  a  smirch  of  doubtful 
amours,  there  stalked  to  him  a  memory  of  his  youth. 
A  memory,  poignant  still,  that  brought  the  scent  of  hay, 
the  gleam  of  moonlight,  a  summer  magic,  into  the  reek 
and  blackness  of  this  London  fog — the  memory  of  a 
night  when  in  the  darkest  shadow  of  a  lawn  he  had  over- 


Voyage  into  the  Inferno  333 

heard  from  a  woman's  lips  that  he  was  not  her  sole 
possessor.  And  for  a  moment  George  walked  no  longer 
in  black  Piccadilly,  but  lay  again,  with  hell  in  his  heart, 
and  his  face  to  the  sweet-smelling,  dewy  grass,  in  the 
long  shadow  of  poplars  that  hid  the  moon. 

A  longing  seized  him  to  throw  his  arm  round  the 
Buccaneer,  and  say,  "Come,  old  boy.  Time  cures  all. 
Let 's  go  and  drink  it  off  ! " 

But  a  voice  yelled  at  him,  and  he  started  back.  A 
cab  rolled  out  of  blackness,  and  into  blackness  disap- 
peared. And  suddenly  George  perceived  that  he  had 
lost  Bosinney.  He  ran  forward  and  back,  felt  his  heart 
clutched  by  a  sickening  fear,  the  dark  fear  that  lives 
in  the  wings  of  the  fog.  Perspiration  started  out  on 
his  brow.  He  stood  quite  still,  listening  with  all  his 
might. 

'  'And  then, "  as  he  confided  to  Dartie  the  same  evening 
in  the  course  of  a  game  of  billiards  at  the  Red  Pottle,  "I 
lost  him." 

Dartie  twirled  complacently  at  his  dark  moustache. 
He  had  just  put  together  a  neat  break  of  twenty-three, 
failing  at  a  "jenny."  "And  who  was  she?"  he  asked. 

George  looked  slowly  at  the  "man  of  the  world's" 
fattish,  sallow  face,  and  a  little  grim  smile  lurked  about 
the  curves  of  his  cheeks  and  his  heavy-lidded  eyes. 

"No,  no,  my  fine  fellow,"  he  thought.  "I'm  not 
going  to  tell  you."  For  though  he  mixed  with  Dartie  a 
good  deal,  he  thought  him  a  bit  of  a  cad. 

"Oh,  some  little  love-lady  or  other, "  he  said,  and 
chalked  his  cue. 

"A  love-lady!"  exclaimed  Dartie — he  used  a  more 
figurative  expression.  "I  made  sure  it  was  our  friend 
Soa " 

"Did  you?"  said  George,  curtly.  "Then,  damme, 
you've  made  an  error!" 


334  The  Man  of  Property 

He  missed  his  shot.  He  was  careful  not  to  allude  to 
the  subject  again  till,  towards  eleven  o'clock,  having, 
in  his  poetic  phraseology,  "looked  upon  the  drink  when 
it  was  yellow,"  he  drew  aside  the  blind,  and  gazed  out 
into  the  street.  The  murky  blackness  of  the  fog  was  but 
faintly  broken  by  the  lamps  of  the  Red  Pottle,  and  no 
shape  of  mortal  man  or  thing  was  in  sight. 

"I  can't  help  thinking  of  that  poor  Buccaneer,"  he 
said.  "  He  may  be  wandering  out  there  now  in  that  fog. 
If  he's  not  a  corpse,"  he  added  with  strange  dejection. 

"Corpse!"  said  Dartie,  in  whom  the  recollection  of  his 
defeat  at  Richmond  flared  up.  "He's  all  right.  Ten  to 
one  if  he  was  n  't  tight ! " 

George  turned  on  him,  looking  really  formidable,  with 
a  sort  of  savage  gloom  on  his  big  face. 

"  Dry  up! "  he  said.  "Don't  I  tell  you  he's  taken  the 
knock  I"1 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    TRIAL 

ON  the  morning  of  his  case,  which  was  second  in  the 
list,  Soames  was  again  obliged  to  start  without 
seeing  Irene,  and  it  was  just  as  well,  for  he  had 
not  as  yet  made  up  his  mind  what  attitude  to  adopt 
towards  her. 

He  had  been  requested  to  be  in  court  by  half-past  ten, 
to  provide  against  the  event  of  the  first  action  (a  breach 
of  promise)  collapsing,  which  however  it  did  not,  both 
sides  showing  a  courage  that  afforded  Waterbuck,  Q.C., 
an  opportunity  for  improving  his  already  great  reputation 
in  this  class  of  case.  He  was  opposed  by  Ram,  the  other 
celebrated  breach  of  promise  man.  It  was  a  battle  of 
giants. 

The  Court  delivered  judgment  just  before  the  luncheon 
interval.  The  jury  left  the  box  for  good,  and  Soames 
went  out  to  get  something  to  eat.  He  met  James  stand- 
ing at  the  little  luncheon-bar,  like  a  pelican  in  the 
wilderness  of  the  galleries,  bent  over  a  sandwich  with  a 
glass  of  sherry  before  him.  The  spacious  emptiness  of 
the  great  central  hall,  over  which  father  and  son  brooded 
as  they  stood  together,  was  marred  now  and  then  for  a 
fleeting  moment  by  barristers  in  wig  and  gown  hurriedly 
bolting  across,  by  an  occasional  old  lady  or  rusty- 
coated  man,  looking  up  in  a  frightened  way,  and  by  two 
persons,  bolder  than  their  generation,  seated  in  an  em- 
brasure arguing.  The  sound  of  their  voices  arose,  to- 

335 


336  The  Man  of  Property 

gether  with  a  scent  as  of  neglected  wells,  which,  mingling 
with  the  odour  of  the  galleries,  combined  to  form  the 
savour,  like  nothing  but  the  emanation  of  a  refined 
cheese,  so  indissolubly  connected  with  the  administration 
of  British  justice. 

It  was  not  long  before  James  addressed  his  son. 

"When's  your  case  coming  on?  I  suppose  it'll  be  on 
directly.  I  should  n't  wonder  if  this  Bosinney  'd  say 
anything;  I  should  think  he'd  have  to.  He'll  go  bank- 
rupt if  it  goes  against  him."  He  took  a  large  bite  at  his 
sandwich  and  a  mouthful  of  sherry.  "Your  mother," 
he  said,  "wants  you  and  Irene  to  come  and  dine  to-night." 

A  chill  smile  played  round  Soames's  lips;  he  looked 
back  at  his  father.  Any  one  who  had  seen  the  look,  cold 
and  furtive,  thus  interchanged,  might  have  been  par- 
doned for  not  appreciating  the  real  understanding  be- 
tween them.  James  finished  his  sherry  at  a  draught. 

"How  much?"    he  asked. 

On  returning  to  the  court  Soames  took  at  once  his 
rightful  seat  on  the  front  bench  beside  his  solicitor.  He 
ascertained  where  his  father  was  seated  with  a  glance  so 
sidelong  as  to  commit  nobody. 

James,  sitting  back  with  his  hands  clasped  over  the 
handle  of  his  umbrella,  was  brooding  on  the  end  of  the 
bench  immediately  behind  counsel,  whence  he  could  get 
away  at  once  when  the  case  was  over.  He  considered 
Bosinney 's  conduct  in  every  way  outrageous,  but  he  did 
not  wish  to  run  up  against  him,  feeling  that  the  meeting 
would  be  awkward. 

Next  to  the  Divorce  Court,  this  court  was,  perhaps, 
the  favourite  emporium  of  justice,  libel,  breach  of 
promise,  and  other  commercial  actions  being  frequently 
decided  there.  Quite  a  sprinkling  of  persons  uncon- 
nected with  the  law  occupied  the  back  benches,  and  the 
hat  of  a  woman  or  two  could  be  seen  in  the  gallery. 


The  Trial  337 

The  two  rows  of  seats  immediately  in  front  of  James 
were  gradually  filled  by  barristers  in  wigs,  who  sat  down 
to  make  pencil  notes,  chat,  and  attend  to  their  teeth; 
but  his  interest  was  soon  diverted  from  these  lesser  lights 
of  justice  by  the  entrance  of  Waterbuck,  Q.C.,  with 
the  wings  of  his  silk  gown  rustling,  and  his  red,  capable 
face  supported  by  two  short,  brown  whiskers.  The 
famous  Q.C.  looked,  as  James  freely  admitted,  the  very 
picture  of  a  man  who  could  heckle  a  witness. 

For  all  his  experience,  it  so  happened  that  he  had 
never  seen  Waterbuck,  Q.C.,  before,  and,  like  many 
Forsytes  in  the  lower  branch  of  the  profession,  he  had  an 
extreme  admiration  for  a  good  cross-examiner.  The 
long,  lugubrious  folds  in  his  cheeks  relaxed  somewhat 
after  seeing  him,  especially  as  he  now  perceived  that 
Soames  alone  was  represented  by  silk. 

Waterbuck,  Q.C.,  had  barely  screwed  round  on  his 
elbow  to  chat  with  his  Junior  before  Mr.  Justice  Bentham 
himself  appeared — a  thin,  rather  hen-like  man,  with  a 
little  stoop,  clean-shaven  under  his  snowy  wig.  Like 
all  the  rest  of  the  court,  Waterbuck  rose,  and  remained 
on  his  feet  until  the  Judge  was  seated.  James  rose  but 
slightly;  he  was  already  comfortable,  and  had  no  opinion 
of  Bentham,  having  sat  next  but  one  to  him  at  dinner 
twice  at  the  Burnley  Tomms'.  Burnley  Tomm  was 
rather  a  poor  thing,  though  he  had  been  so  successful. 
James  himself  had  given  him  his  first  brief.  He  was 
excited,  too,  for  he  had  just  found  out  that  Bosinney 
was  not  in  Court. 

"Now,  what 's  he  mean  by  that  ?  "  he  kept  on  thinking. 

The  case  having  been  called  on,  Waterbuck,  Q.C., 
pushing  back  his  papers,  hitched  his  gown  on  his  shoulder, 
and,  with  a  semicircular  look  around  him,  like  a  man 
who  is  going  to  bat,  arose  and  addressed  the  Court. 

The  facts,  he  said,  were  not  in  dispute,  and  all  that  his 

22 


338  The  Man  of  Property 

Lordship  would  be  asked  was  to  interpret  the  corre- 
spondence which  had  taken  place  between  his  client  and 
the  defendant,  an  architect,  with  reference  to  the 
decoration  of  a  house.  He  would,  however,  submit  that 
this  correspondence  could  only  mean  one  very  plain  thing. 
After  briefly  reciting  the  history  of  the  house  at  Robin 
Hill,  which  he  described  as  a  mansion,  and  the  actual 
facts  of  expenditure,  he  went  on  as  follows: 

"My  client,  Mr.  Soames  Forsyte,  is  a  gentleman,  a 
man  of  property,  who  would  be  the  last  to  dispute  any 
legitimate  claim  that  might  be  made  against  him,  but 
he  has  met  with  such  treatment  from  his  architect  in 
the  matter  of  this  house,  over  which  he  has,  as  your 
lordship  has  heard,  already  spent  some  twelve — some 
twelve  thousand  pounds,  a  sum  considerably  in  advance 
of  the  amount  he  had  originally  contemplated,  that  as  a 
matter  of  principle — and  this  I  cannot  too  strongly  em- 
phasise— as  a  matter  of  principle,  and  in  the  interests  of 
others,  he  has  felt  himself  compelled  to  bring  this  action. 
The  point  put  forward  in  defence  by  the  architect  I  will 
suggest  to  your  Lordship  is  not  worthy  of  a  moment's 
serious  consideration. ' '  He  then  read  the  correspondence. 

His  client,  "a  man  of  recognised  position,"  was  pre- 
pared to  go  into  the  box,  and  to  swear  that  he  never  did 
authorise,  that  it  was  never  in  his  mind  to  authorise, 
the  expenditure  of  any  money  beyond  the  extreme 
limit  of  twelve  thousand  and  fifty  pounds,  which  he  had 
clearly  fixed;  and  not  further  to  waste  the  time  of  the 
Court,  he  would  at  once  call  Mr.  Forsyte. 

Soames  then  went  into  the  box.  His  whole  appearance 
was  striking  in  its  composure.  His  face,  just  super- 
cilious enough,  pale  and  clean-shaven,  with  a  little  line 
between  the  eyes,  and  compressed  lips;  his  dress  in  un- 
ostentatious order,  one  hand  neatly  gloved,  the  other 
bare.  He  answered  the  questions  put  to  him  in  a  some- 


The  Trial  339 

what  low,  but  distinct  voice.  His  evidence  under 
cross-examination  savoured  of  taciturnity. 

"Had  he  not  used  the  expression,  'a  free  hand'?" 

"No." 

"Come,  come!" 

The  expression  he  had  used  was  "a  free  hand  in  the 
terms  of  this  correspondence." 

"Would  he  tell  the  court  that  that  was  English?" 

"Yes!" 

"What  did  he  say  it  meant?" 

"What  it  said!" 

"Was  he  prepared  to  deny  that  it  was  a  contradiction 
in  terms?" 

"Yes." 

"He  was  not  an  Irishman?" 

"No." 

"Was  he  a  well-educated  man?" 

"Yes!" 

"And  yet  he  persisted  in  that  statement?" 

"Yes." 

Throughout  this  and  much  more  cross-examination, 
which  turned  again  and  again  around  the  "nice  point." 
James  sat  with  his  hand  behind  his  ear,  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  his  son. 

He  was  proud  of  him!  He  could  not  but  feel  that  in 
similar  circumstances  he  himself  would  have  been  tempted 
to  enlarge  his  replies,  but  his  instinct  told  him  that  this 
taciturnity  was  the  very  thing.  He  sighed  with  relief, 
however,  when  Soames,  slowly  turning,  and  without  any 
change  of  expression,  descended  from  the  box. 

When  it  came  to  the  turn  of  Bosinney's  Counsel  to 
address  the  Judge,  James  redoubled  his  attention,  and 
he  searched  the  Court  again  and  again  to  see  if  Bosinney 
were  not  somewhere  concealed. 

Young  Chankery  began  nervously;   he  was  placed  by 


340  The  Man  of  Property 

Bosinney's  absence  in  an  awkward  position.     He  there- 
fore did  his  best  to  turn  that  absence  to  account. 

He  could  not  but  fear — he  said — that  his  client  had 
met  with  an  accident.  He  had  fully  expected  him  there 
to  give  evidence ;  they  had  sent  round  that  morning  both 
to  Mr.  Bosinney's  office  and  to  his  rooms  (though  he 
knew  they  were  one  and  the  same,  he  thought  it  was  as 
well  not  to  say  so) ,  but  it  was  not  known  where  he  was, 
and  this  he  considered  to  be  ominous,  knowing  how 
anxious  Mr.  Bosinney  had  been  to  give  his  evidence. 
He  had  not,  however,  been  instructed  to  apply  for  an 
adjournment,  and  in  default  of  such  instruction  he  con- 
ceived it  his  duty  to  go  on.  The  plea  on  which  he  some- 
what  confidently  relied,  and  which  his  client,  had  he  not 
unfortunately  been  prevented  in  some  way  from  attend- 
ing, would  have  supported  by  his  evidence,  was  that  such 
an  expression  as  a  "free  hand"  could  not  be  limited,  fet- 
tered, and  rendered  unmeaning,  by  any  verbiage  which 
might  follow  it.  He  would  go  further  and  say  that  the 
correspondence  showed  that  whatever  he  might  have 
said  in  his  evidence,  Mr.  Forsyte  had  in  fact  never  con- 
templated repudiating  liability  on  any  of  the  work  or- 
dered or  executed  by  his  architect.  The  defendant  had 
certainly  never  contemplated  such  a  contingency,  or,  as 
was  demonstrated  by  his  letters,  he  would  never  have 
proceeded  with  the  work— a  work  of  extreme  delicacy 
carried  out  with  great  cajne  and  efficiency,  to  meet  and 
satisfy  the  fastidious  taste  of  a  connoisseur,  a  rich  man, 
a  man  of  property.  He  felt  strongly  on  this  point,  and 
feeling  strongly  he  used,  perhaps,  rather  strong  words 
when  he  said  that  this  action  was  of  a  most  unjustifiable 
unexpected,  indeed  unprecendented  character.  If  his 
Lordship  had  had  the  opportunity  that  he  himself  had 
made  it  his  duty  to  take,  to  go  over  this  very  fine  house 
and  see  the  great  delicacy  and  beauty  of  the  decorations 


The  Trial  341 

executed  by  his  client — an  artist  in  his  most  honour- 
able profession — he  felt  convinced  that  not  for  one  mo- 
ment would  his  Lordship  tolerate  this,  he  would  use  no 
stronger  word  than,  daring  attempt  to  evade  legitimate 
responsibility. 

Taking  the  text  of  Soames's  letters,  he  lightly  touched 
on  "Boileau  v.  The  Blasted  Cement  Company,  Limited." 
"It  is  doubtful,"  he  said,  "what  that  authority  has 
decided;  in  any  case  I  would  submit  that  it  is  just  as 
much  in  my  favour  as  in  my  friend's."  He  then  argued 
the  "nice  point"  closely.  With  all  due  deference  he 
submitted  that  Mr.  Forsyte's  expression  nullified  itself. 
His  client  not  being  a  rich  man,  the  matter  was  a  serious 
one  for  him;  he  was  a  very  talented  architect,  whose 
professional  reputation  was  undoubtedly  somewhat  at 
stake.  He  concluded  with  a  perhaps  too  personal  appeal 
to  the  Judge,  as  a  lover  of  the  arts,  to  show  himself  the 
protector  of  artists,  from  what  was  occasionally  — he  said 
occasionally — the  too  iron  hand  of  capital.  "What," 
he  said,  "will  be  the  position  of  the  artistic  professions, 
if  men  of  property  like  this  Mr.  Forsyte  refuse,  and  are 
allowed  to  refuse,  to  carry  out  the  obligations  of  the 
commissions  which  they  have  given?  .  .  .  "  He  would 
now  call  his  client,  in  case  he  should  at  the  last  moment 
have  found  himself  able  to  be  present. 

The  name  Philip  Baynes  Bosinney  was  called  three 
times  by  the  ushers,  and  the  sound  of  the  calling  echoed 
with  strange  melancholy  throughout  the  court  and 
galleries. 

The  crying  of  this  name,  to  which  no  answer  was 
returned,  had  upon  James  a  curious  effect;  it  was  like 
calling  for  your  lost  dog  about  the  streets.  And  the  creepy 
feeling  that  it  gave  him,  of  a  man  missing,  grated  on  his 
sense  of  comfort  and  security — on  his  cosiness.  Though 
lie  could  not  have  said  why,  it  made  him  feel  uneasy. 


342  The  Man  of  Property 

He  looked  now  at  the  clock — a  quarter  to  three!  It 
would  be  all  over  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Where 
could  the  young  fellow  be  ? 

It  was  only  when  Mr.  Justice  Bentham  delivered 
judgment  that  he  got  over  the  turn  he  had  received. 

Behind  the  wooden  plateau  by  which  he  was  fenced 
from  more  ordinary  mortals  the  learned  Judge  leaned 
forward.  The  electric  light,  just  turned  on  above  his 
head,  fell  on  his  face,  and  mellowed  it  to  an  orange  hue 
beneath  the  snowy  crown  of  his  wig;  the  amplitude  of 
his  robes  grew  before  the  eye;  his  whole  figure,  facing 
the  comparative  dusk  of  the  court,  radiated  like  some 
majestic  and  sacred  body.  He  cleared  his  throat,  took 
a  sip  of  water,  broke  the  nib  of  a  quill  against  the  desk, 
and,  folding  his  bony  hands  before  him,  began. 

To  James  he  suddenly  loomed  much  larger  than  he 
had  ever  thought  Bentham  would  loom.  It  was  the 
majesty  of  the  law ;  and  a  person  endowed  with  a  nature 
far  less  matter-of-fact  than  that  of  James  might  have 
been  excused  for  failing  to  pierce  this  halo,  and  disinter 
therefrom  the  somewhat  ordinary  Forsyte,  who  walked 
and  talked  in  everyday  life  under  the  name  of  Sir  Walter 
Bentham. 

He  delivered  judgment  in  the  following  words: 

"The  facts  in  this  case  are  not  in  dispute.  On  May 
1 5th  last  the  defendant  wrote  to  the  plaintiff,  requesting  to 
be  allowed  to  withdraw  from  his  professional  position  in 
regard  to  the  decoration  of  the  plaintiff's  house,  unless 
he  were  given  'a  free  hand.'  The  plaintiff,  on  May  i7th, 
wrote  back  as  follows:  *  In  giving  you,  in  accordance  with 
your  request,  this  free  hand,  I  wish  you  to  clearly  under- 
stand that  the  total  cost  of  the  house  as  handed  over  to 
me  completely  decorated,  inclusive  of  your  fee  (as  ar- 
ranged between  us)  must  not  exceed  twelve  thousand 
pounds/  To  this  letter  the  defendant  replied  on  May 


The  Trial  343 

1 8th:  '  If  you  think  that  in  such  a  delicate  matter  as  deco- 
ration I  can  bind  myself  to  the  exact  pound,  I  am  afraid 
you  are  mistaken.'  On  May  igth  the  plaintiff  wrote  as 
follows:  '  I  did  not  mean  to  say  that  if  you  should  exceed 
the  sum  named  in  my  letter  to  you  by  ten  or  twenty  or 
even  fifty  pounds  there  would  be  any  difficulty  between 
us.  You  have  a  free  hand  in  the  terms  of  this  corre- 
spondence, and  I  hope  you  will  see  your  way  to  complet- 
ing the  decorations.'  On  May  2oth  the  defendant 
replied  thus  shortly:  'Very  well.' 

"In  completing  these  decorations,  the  defendant  in- 
curred liabilities  and  expenses  which  brought  the  total 
cost  of  this  house  up  to  the  sum  of  twelve  thousand  four 
hundred  pounds,  all  of  which  expenditure  has  been  de- 
frayed by  the  plaintiff.  This  action  has  been  brought 
by  the  plaintiff  to  recover  from  the  defendant  the  sum  of 
three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  expended  by  him  in 
excess  of  a  sum  of  twelve  thousand  and  fifty  pounds, 
alleged  by  the  plaintiff  to  have  been  fixed  by  this  corre- 
spondence as  the  maximum  sum  that  the  defendant 
had  authority  to  expend. 

"The  question  for  me  to  decide  is  whether  or  no  the 
defendant  is  liable  to  refund  to  the  plaintiff  this  sum. 
In  my  judgment  he  is  so  liable. 

"What  in  effect  the  plaintiff  has  said  is  this:  'I  give 
you  a  free  hand  to  complete  these  decorations,  provided 
that  you  keep  within  a  total  cost  to  me  of  twelve 
thousand  pounds.  If  you  exceed  that  sum  by  as  much 
as  fifty  pounds,  I  will  not  hold  you  responsible;  beyond 
that  point  you  are  no  agent  of  mine,  and  I  shall  repudiate 
liability.'  It  is  not  quite  clear  to  me  whether,  had  the 
plaintiff  in  fact  repudiated  liability  under  his  agent's 
contracts,  he  would,  under  all  the  circumstances,  have 
been  successful  in  so  doing ;  but  he  has  not  adopted  this 
course.  He  has  accepted  liability,  and  fallen  back  upon 


344  The  Man  of  Property 

his  rights  against  the  defendant  under  the  terms  of  the 
latter' s  engagement. 

"In  my  judgment  the  plaintiff  is  entitled  to  recover 
this  sum  from  the  defendant. 

4 'It  has  been  sought,  on  behalf  of  the  defendant,  to 
show  that  no  limit  of  expenditure  was  fixed  or  intended 
to  be  fixed  by  this  correspondence.  If  this  were  so,  I  can 
find  no  reason  for  the  plaintiff's  importation  into  the 
correspondence  of  the  figures  of  twelve  thousand  pounds, 
and  subsequently  of  fifty  pounds.  The  defendant's 
contention  would  render  these  figures  meaningless. 
It  is  manifest  to  me  that  by  his  letter  of  May  2oth  he 
assented  to  a  very  clear  proposition,  by  the  terms  of 
which  he  must  be  held  to  be  bound. 

"For  these  reasons  there  will  be  judgment  for  the 
plaintiff  for  the  amount  claimed  with  costs." 

James  sighed,  and  stooping,  picked  up  his  umbrella 
which  had  fallen  with  a  rattle  at  the  words  "importation 
into  this  correspondence." 

Untangling  his  legs,  he  rapidly  left  the  Court ;  without 
waiting  for  his  son,  he  snapped  up  a  hansom  cab  (it  was 
a  clear,  grey  afternoon)  and  drove  straight  to  Timothy's 
where  he  found  Swithin;  and  to  him,  Mrs.  Septimus 
Small,  and  Aunt  Hester,  he  recounted  the  whole  pro- 
ceedings, eating  two  muffins  not  altogether  in  the  inter- 
vals of  speech. 

"Soames  did  very  well,"  he  ended;  "he's  got  his 
head  screwed  on  the  right  way.  This  won't  please 
Jolyon.  It's  a  bad  business  for  that  young  Bosinney; 
he  '11  go  bankrupt,  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  and  then 
after  a  long  pause,  during  which  he  had  stared  disquietly 
into  the  fire,  he  added: 

"  He  was  n't  there — now  why  ?  " 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps.  The  figure  of  a 
thick-set  man,  with  the  ruddy,  brown  face  of  robust 


The  Trial  345 

health,  was  seen  in  the  back  drawing-room.  The  fore- 
finger of  his  upraised  hand  was  outlined  against  the 
black  of  his  frock-coat.  He  spoke  in  a  grudging  voice. 

"Well,  James,"  he  said;  "I  can't — I  can't  stop." 
And  turning  round,  he  walked  out. 

It  was  Timothy. 

James  rose  from  his  chair.  "There!  "  he  said ;  "  there! 
I  knew  there  was  something  wro — — •"  He  checked 
himself,  and  was  silent,  staring  before  him,  as  though  he 
had  seen  a  portent. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

SOAMES    BREAKS    THE    NEWS 

ON  leaving  the  Courts  Soames  did  not  go  straight 
home.     He   felt    disinclined   for   the    City,   and 
drawn   by   need   for    sympathy   in   his    triumph,    he, 
too,  made  his  way,  but  slowly  and  on  foot,  to  Timothy's 
in  the  Bayswater  Road. 

His  father  had  just  left ;  Mrs.  Small  and  Aunt  Hester, 
in  possession  of  the  whole  story,  greeted  him  warmly. 
They  were  sure  he  was  hungry  after  all  that  evidence. 
Smither  should  toast  him  some  more  muffins,  his  dear 
father  had  eaten  them  all.  He  must  put  his  legs  up  on 
the  sofa;  and  he  must  have  a  glass  of  prune  brandy,  too. 
It  was  so  strengthening. 

Swithin  was  still  present,  having  lingered  later  than 
his  wont,  for  he  felt  in  want  of  exercise.  On  hearing 
this  suggestion,  he  "pished. "  A  pretty  pass  young  men 
were  coming  to  !  His  own  liver  was  out  of  order,  and 
he  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  any  one  else  drinking 
prune  brandy. 

He  went  away  almost  immediately,  saying  to  Soames: 
"And  how  's  your  wife?  You  tell  her  from  me  that  if 
she  's  dull,  and  likes  to  come  and  dine  with  me  quietly, 
I  '11  give  her  such  a  bottle  of  champagne  as  she  does  n  't 
get  every  day."  Staring  down  from  his  height  on 
Soames  he  contracted  his  thick,  puffy,  yellow  hand  as 
though  squeezing  within  it  all  this  small  fry,  and  throwing 
out  his  chest  he  waddled  slowly  away, 

346' 


Soames  Breaks  the  News          347 

Mrs.  Small  and  Aunt  Hester  were  left  horrified. 
Swithin  was  so  droll ! 

They  themselves  were  longing  to  ask  Soames  how 
Irene  would  take  the  result,  yet  knew  that  they  must  not ; 
he  would  perhaps  say  something  of  his  own  accord,  to 
throw  some  light  on  this,  the  present  burning  question 
in  their  lives,  the  question  that  from  necessity  of  silence 
tortured  them  almost  beyond  bearing ;  for  even  Timothy 
had  now  been  told,  and  the  effect  on  his  health  was  little 
short  of  alarming.  And  what,  too,  would  June  do? 
This,  also,  was  a  most  exciting,  if  dangerous  speculation! 

They  had  never  forgotten  old  Jolyon's  visit,  since 
when  he  had  not  once  been  to  see  them ;  they  had  never 
forgotten  the  feeling  it  gave  all  who  were  present,  that 
the  family  was  no  longer  what  it  had  been — that  the 
family  was  breaking  up. 

But  Soames  gave  them  no  help,  sitting  with  his  knees 
crossed,  talking  of  the  Barbizon  school  of  painters, 
whom  he  had  just  discovered.  These  were  the  coming 
men,  he  said ;  he  should  not  wonder  if  a  lot  of  money  were 
made  over  them ;  he  had  his  eye  on  two  pictures  by  a  man 
called  Corot,  charming  things;  if  he  could  get  them  at  a 
reasonable  price  he  was  going  to  buy  them — they  would, 
he  thought,  fetch  a  big  price  some  day. 

Interested  as  they  could  not  but  be,  neither  Mrs. 
Septimus  Small  nor  Aunt  Hester  could  entirely  acquiesce 
in  being  thus  put  off. 

It  was  interesting — most  interesting — and  then  Soames 
was  so  clever  that  they  were  sure  he  would  do  something 
with  those  pictures  if  anybody  could ;  but  what  was  his 
plan  now  that  he  had  won  his  case;  was  he  going  to 
leave  London  at  once,  and  live  in  the  country,  or  what 
was  he  going  to  do  ? 

Soames  answered  that  he  did  not  know,  he  thought 
they  should  be  moving  soon.  He  rose  and  kissed  his  aunts. 


348  The  Man  of  Property 

No  sooner  had  Aunt  Juley  received  this  emblem  of 
departure  than  a  change  came  over  her,  as  though  she 
were  being  visited  by  dreadful  courage;  every  little  roll 
of  flesh  on  her  face  seemed  trying  to  escape  from  an 
invisible  confining  mask. 

She  rose  to  the  full  extent  of  her  more  than  medium 
height,  and  said:  "It  has  been  on  my  mind  a  long  time, 
dear,  and  if  nobody  else  will  tell  you,  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  that " 

Aunt  Hester  interrupted  her:  "Mind,  Julia,  you  do 
it — "  she  gasped — "on  your  own  responsibility!" 

Mrs.  Small  went  on  as  though  she  had  not  heard:  "I 
think  you  ought  to  know,  dear,  that  Mrs.  MacAnder  saw 
Irene  walking  in  Richmond  Park  with  Mr.  Bosinney." 

Aunt  Hester,  who  had  also  risen,  sank  back  in  her 
chair,  and  turned  her  face  away.  Really  Juley  was  too — 
she  should  not  do  such  things  when  she — Aunt  Hester, 
was  in  the  room;  and,  breathless  with  anticipation,  she 
waited  for  what  Soames  would  answer. 

He  had  flushed  the  peculiar  flush  which  always  centred 
between  his  eyes;  lifting  his  hand,  and,  as  it  were,  se- 
lecting a  finger,  he  bit  a  nail  delicately;  then,  drawling  it 
out  between  set  lips,  he  said:  "Mrs.  Mac  Ander  is  a  cat ! " 

Without  waiting  for  any  reply,  he  left  the  room. 

When  he  went  into  Timothy's  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  what  course  to  pursue  on  getting  home.  He 
would  go  up  to  Irene  and  say: 

"Well,  I  've  won  my  case,  and  there 's  an  end  of  it!  I 
don't  want  to  be  hard  on  Bosinney;  I  '11  see  if  we  can't 
come  to  some  arrangement;  he  sha'n't  be  pressed.  And 
now  let 's  turn  over  a  new  leaf!  We  '11  let  the  house,  and 
get  out  of  these  fogs.  We  '11  go  down  to  Robin  Hill  at 
once.  I — I  never  meant  to  be  rough  with  you!  Let's 

shake  hands — and "  Perhaps  she  would  let  him 

kiss  her,  and  forget  I 


Soames  Breaks  the  News          349 

When  he  came  out  of  Timothy's  his  intentions  were  no 
longer  so  simple.  The  smouldering  jealousy  and  sus- 
picion of  months  blazed  up  within  him.  He  would  put 
an  end  to  that  sort  of  thing  once  and  for  all ;  he  would 
not  have  her  drag  his  name  in  the  dirt!  If  she  could  not 
or  would  not  love  him,  as  was  her  duty  and  his  right — 
she  should  not  play  him  tricks  with  any  one  else!  He 
would  tax  her  with  it;  threaten  to  divorce  her!  That 
would  make  her  behave;  she  would  never  face  that. 
But — but — what  if  she  did?  He  was  staggered;  this 
had  not  occurred  to  him. 

What  if  she  did  ?  What  if  she  made  him  a  confession  ? 
How  would  he  stand  then?  He  would  have  to  bring  a 
divorce ! 

A  divorce!  Thus  close,  the  word  was  paralysing,  so 
utterly  at  variance  with  all  the  principles  that  had 
hitherto  guided  his  life.  Its  lack  of  compromise  ap- 
palled him;  he  felt  like  the  captain  of  a  ship,  going  to  the 
side  of  his  vessel,  and,  with  his  own  hands  throwing 
over  the  most  precious  of  his  bales.  This  jettisoning  of 
his  property  with  his  own  hand  seemed  uncanny  to 
Soames.  It  would  injure  him  in  his  profession.  He 
would  have  to  get  rid  of  the  house  at  Robin  Hill,  on 
which  he  had  spent  so  much  money,  so  much  anticipa- 
tion— and  at  a  sacrifice.  And  she!  She  would  no 
longer  belong  to  him,  not  even  in  name!  She  would 
pass  out  of  his  life,  and  he — he  should  never  see  her  again! 

He  traversed  in  the  cab  the  length  of  a  street  without 
getting  beyond  the  thought  that  he  should  never  see 
her  again! 

But  perhaps  there  was  nothing  to  confess,  even  now 
very  likely  there  was  nothing  to  confess.  Was  it  wise  to 
push  things  so  far?  Was  it  wise  to  put  himself  into  a 
position  where  he  might  have  to  eat  his  words?  The 
result  of  this  case  would  ruin  Bosinney;  a  ruined  man 


35°  The  Man  of  Property 

was  desperate,  but — what  could  he  do?  He  might  go 
abroad,  ruined  men  always  went  abroad.  What  could 
they  do — if  indeed  it  was  "they" — without  money?  It 
would  be  better  to  wait  and  see  how  things  turned  out. 
If  necessary,  he  could  have  her  watched.  The  agony 
of  his  jealousy  (for  all  the  world  like  the  crisis  of  an 
aching  tooth)  came  on  again;  and  he  almost  cried  out. 
But  he  must  decide,  fix  on  some  course  of  action  before 
he  got  home.  When  the  cab  drew  up  at  the  door,  he 
had  decided  nothing. 

He  entered,  pale,  his  hands  moist  with  perspiration, 
dreading  to  meet  her,  burning  to  meet  her,  ignorant  of 
what  he  was  to  say  or  do. 

The  maid  Bilson  was  in  the  hall,  and  in  answer  to  his 
question:  "Where  is  your  mistress? "  told  him  that  Mrs. 
Forsyte  had  left  the  house  about  noon,  taking  with  her  a 
trunk  and  bag.  ^ 

Snatching  the  sleeve  of  his  fur  coat  away  from  her 
grasp  he  confronted  her  : 

"What?"  he  exclaimed;  "what's  that  you  said?" 
Suddenly  recollecting  that  he  must  not  betray  emotion, 
he  added:  "What  message  did  she  leave?"  and  noticed 
with  secret  terror  the  startled  look  of  the  maid's  eyes. 

"Mrs.  Forsyte  left  no  message,  sir." 

"No  message;  very  well,  thank  you,  that  will  do.  I 
shall  be  dining  out." 

The  maid  went  down-stairs,  leaving  him  still  in  his  fur 
coat,  idly  turning  over  the  visiting  cards  in  the  porcelain 
bowl  that  stood  on  the  carved  oak  rug  chest  in  the  hall. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bareham  Culcher.  Lady  Bellis. 

Mrs.  Septimus  Small.  Miss  Hermione  Bellis. 

Mrs.  Baynes.  Miss  Winifred  Bellis. 

Mr.  Solomon  Thorn  worthy.  Miss  Ella  Bellis. 

Who  the  devil  were  all  these  people?     He  seemed  to 


Soames  Breaks  the  News         351 

have  forgotten  all  familiar  things.  The  words  "no 
message — a  trunk,  and  a  bag,"  played  hide-and-seek 
in  his  brain.  It  was  incredible  that  she  had  left  no 
message,  and,  still  in  his  fur  coat,  he  ran  up-stairs  two 
steps  at  a  time,  as  a  young  married  man  when  he  comes 
home  will  run  up  to  his  wife's  room. 

Everything  was  dainty,  fresh,  sweet-smelling;  every- 
thing in  perfect  order.  On  the  great  bed  with  its  lilac 
silk  quilt,  was  the  bag  she  had  made  and  embroidered 
with  her  own  hands  to  hold  her  sleeping  things;  her 
slippers  ready  at  the  foot;  the  sheets  even  turned  over 
at  the  head  as  though  expecting  her. 

On  the  table  stood  the  silver-mounted  brushes  and 
bottles  from  her  dressing  bag,  his  own  present.  There 
must,  then,  be  some  mistake.  What  bag  had  she 
taken?  He  went  to  the  bell  to  summon  Bilson,  but 
remembered  in  time  that  he  must  assume  knowledge  of 
where  Irene  had  gone,  take  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and  grope  out  the  meaning  for  himself. 

He  locked  the  doors,  and  tried  to  think,  but  felt  his 
brain  going  round ;  and  suddenly  tears  forced  themselves 
into  his  eyes. 

Hurriedly  pulling  off  his  coat,  he  looked  at  himself  in 
the  mirror. 

He  was  too  pale,  a  greyish  tinge  all  over  his  face;  he 
poured  out  water,  and  began  feverishly  washing. 

Her  silver-mounted  brushes  smelt  faintly  of  the  per- 
fumed lotion  she  used  for  her  hair ;  and  at  this  scent  the 
burning  sickness  of  his  jealousy  seized  him  again. 

Struggling  into  his  fur,  he  ran  down-stairs  and  out  into 
the  street. 

He  had  not  lost  all  command  of  himself,  however,  and 
as  he  went  down  Sloane  Street  he  framed  a  story  for  use, 
in  case  he  should  not  find  her  at  Bosinney's.  But  if  he 
should?  His  power  of  decision  again  failed;  he  reached 


352  The  Man  of  Property 

the  house  without  knowing  what  he  should  do  if  he  did 
find  her  there. 

It  was  after  office  hours,  and  the  street  door  was  closed; 
the  woman  who  opened  it  could  not  say  whether  Mr. 
Bosinney  were  in  or  no ;  she  had  not  seen  him  that  day, 
not  for  two  or  three  days;  she  did  not  attend  to  him 
now,  nobody  attended  to  him,  he 

Soames  interrupted  her,  he  would  go  up  and  see  for 
himself.  He  went  up  with  a  dogged,  white  face. 

The  top  floor  was  unlighted,  the  door  closed,  no  one 
answered  his  ringing,  he  could  hear  no  sound.  He  was 
obliged  to  descend,  shivering  under  his  fur,  a  chill  at  his 
heart.  Hailing  a  cab,  he  told  the  man  to  drive  to  Park 
Lane. 

On  the  way  he  tried  to  recollect  when  he  had  last 
given  her  a  cheque ;  she  could  not  have  more  than  three 
or  four  pounds,  but  there  were  her  jewels;  and  with 
exquisite  torture  he  remembered  how  much  money  she 
could  raise  on  these ;  enough  to  take  them  abroad ;  enough 
for  them  to  live  on  for  months!  He  tried  to  calculate; 
the  cab  stopped,  and  he  got  out  with  the  calculation 
unmade. 

The  butler  asked  whether  Mrs.  Soames  was  in  the  cab, 
the  master  had  told  him  they  were  both  expected  to 
dinner. 

Soames  answered:    "No,  Mrs.  Forsyte  has  a  cold." 

The  butler  was  sorry. 

Soames  thought  he  was  looking  at  him  inquisitively, 
and  remembering  that  he  was  not  in  dress  clothes, 
asked:  "Anybody  here  to  dinner,  Warmson?" 

"Nobody  but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dartie,  sir." 

Again  it  seemed  to  Soames  that  the  butler  was  looking 
curiously  at  him.  His  composure  gave  way. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?"  he  said.  "What's  the 
matter  with  me,  eh? " 


Soames  Breaks  the  News          353 

The  butler  blushed,  hung  up  the  fur  coat,  murmured 
something  that  sounded  like:  "Nothing,  sir,  I'm  sure, 
sir,"  and  stealthily  withdrew. 

Soames  walked  up-stairs.  Passing  the  drawing-room 
without  a  look,  he  went  straight  up  to  his  mother's  and 
father's  bedroom. 

James,  standing  sideways,  the  concave  lines  of  his 
tall,  lean  figure  displayed  to  advantage  in  shirt-sleeves 
and  evening  waistcoat,  his  head  bent,  the  end  of  his 
white  tie  peeping  askew  from  underneath  one  white 
Dundreary  whisker,  his  eyes  peering  with  intense 
concentration,  his  lips  pouting,  was  hooking  the  top 
hooks  of  his  wife's  bodice.  Soames  stopped;  he  felt 
half -choked,  whether  because  he  had  come  up-stairs  too 
fast,  or  for  some  other  reason.  He — he  himself  had 
never — never  been  asked  to • 

He  heard  his  father's  voice,  as  though  there  were  a 
pin  in  his  mouth,  saying:  "  Who  's  that  ?  Who 's  there? 
What  d'  you  want  ?"  His  mother's  :  "  Here,  Felice,  come 
and  hook  this  ;  your  master  '11  never  get  done." 

He  put  his  hand  up  to  his  throat,  and  said  hoarsely: 

"It's  I— Soames!" 

He  noticed  gratefully  the  affectionate  surprise  in 
Emily's:  "Well,  my  dear  boy?"  and  James's,  as  he 
dropped  the  hook  :  "What,  Soames!  What's  brought 
you  up?  Aren't  you  well?" 

He  answered  mechanically:  "I'm  all  right,"  and 
looked  at  them,  and  it  seemed  impossible  to  bring  out 
his  news. 

James,  quick  to  take  alarm,  began:  "You  don't  look 
well.  I  expect  you  've  taken  a  chill — it's  liver,  I 
should  n't  wonder.  Your  mother  '11  give  you " 

But  Emily  broke  in  quietly:  "Have  you  brought 
Irene?" 

"No,"  he  stammered,  "she — she's  left  me!" 

23 


354  The  Man  of  Property 

Emily  deserted  the  mirror  before  which  she  was 
standing.  Her  tall,  full  figure  lost  its  majesty  and 
became  very  human  as  she  came  running  over  to  Soames. 

' '  My  dear  boy !     My  dear  boy ! ' ' 

She  put  her  lips  to  his  forehead,  and  stroked  his  hand. 

James,  too,  had  turned  full  towards  his  son;  his  face 
looked  older. 

"Left  you?"  he  said.  "What  d'  you  mean— left  you? 
You  never  told  me  she  was  going  to  leave  you." 

Soames  answered  surlily:  "How  could  I  tell?  What's 
to  be  done?" 

James  began  walking  up  and  down ;  he  looked  strange 
and  stork-like  without  a  coat.  "What's  to  be  done!  " 
he  muttered.  ' '  How  should  I  know  what 's  to  be  done  ? " 
What 's  the  good  of  asking  me  ?  Nobody  tells  me  any- 
thing, and  then  they  come  and  ask  me  what 's  to  be  done ; 
and  I  should  like  to  know  how  I  'm  to  tell  them !  Here 's 
your  mother,  there  she  stands;  she  does  n't  say  anything. 
What  /  should  say  you've  got  to  do  is  to  follow  her." 

Soames  smiled ;  his  peculiar,  supercilious  smile  had 
never  before  looked  pitiable. 

"I  don't  know  where  she's  gone,"  he  said. 

"Don't  know  where  she's  gone!"  said  James.  "How 
d'you  mean,  don't  know  where  she's  gone?  Where 
d'you  suppose  she's  gone?  She's  gone  after  that  young 
Bosinney,  that's  where  she's  gone  I  knew  how  it 
would  be." 

Soames,  in  the  long  silence  that  followed,  felt  his 
mother  pressing  his  hand.  And  all  that  passed  seem 
to  pass  as  though  his  own  power  of  thinking  or  doing  had 
gone  to  sleep. 

His  father's  face,  dusky  red,  twitching  as  if  he  were 
going  to  cry,  and  words  breaking  out  that  seemed  rent 
from  him  by  some  spasm  in  his  soul. 

"There'll  be  a  scandal;   I  always  said  so."     Then,  no 


Soames  Breaks  the  News          355 

one  saying  anything:  "And  there  you  stand,  you  and 
your  mother!" 

And  Emily's  voice,  calm,  rather  contemptuous:  ' '  Come 
now,  James!  Soames  will  do  all  that  he  can." 

And  James,  staring  at  the  floor,  a  little  brokenly: 
"Well,  I  can't  help  you;  I  'm  getting  old.  Don't  you  be 
in  too  great  a  hurry,  my  boy." 

And  his  mother's  voice  again:  "Soames  will  do  all  he 
can  to  get  her  back.  We  won't  talk  of  it.  It'll  all 
come  right  I  dare  say." 

And  James  :  "Well,  I  can't  see  how  it  can  come  right. 
And  if  she  hasn't  gone  off  with  that  young  Bosinney, 
my  advice  to  you  is  not  to  listen  to  her,  but  to  follow 
her  and  get  her  back." 

Once  more  Soames  felt  his  mother  stroking  his  hand,  in 
token  of  her  approval,  and  as  though  repeating  some  form 
of  sacred  oath,  he  muttered  between  his  teeth:  "I  will! " 

All  three  went  down  to  the  drawing-room  together. 
There  were  gathered  the  three  girls  and  Dartie;  had 
Irene  been  present,  the  family  circle  would  have  been 
complete. 

James  sank  into  his  arm-chair,  and  except  for  a  word  of 
cold  greeting  to  Dartie,  whom  he  both  despised  and 
dreaded,  as  a  man  likely  to  be  always  in  want  of  money,  he 
said  nothing  till  dinner  was  announced.  Soames,  too, 
was  silent;  Emily  alone,  a  woman  of  cool  courage,  main- 
tained a  conversation  with  Winifred  on  trivial  subjects. 
She  was  never  more  composed  in  her  manner  and  con- 
versation than  that  evening. 

A  decision  having  been  come  to  not  to  speak  of  Irene's 
flight,  no  view  was  expressed  by  any  other  member  of 
the  family  as  to  the  right  course  to  be  pursued;  there 
can  be  little  doubt,  from  the  general  tone  adopted  in 
relation  to  events  as  they  afterwards  turned  out,  that 
James's  advice:  "Don't  you  listen  to  her,  follow  her  and 


356  The  Man  of  Property 

get  her  back!"  would,  with  here  and  there  an  exception 
have  been  regarded  as  sound,  not  only  in  Park  Lane, 
but  amongst  the  Nicholases,  the  Rogers,  and  at  Timothy's. 
Just  as  it  would  surely  have  been  endorsed  by  that  wider 
body  of  Forsytes  all  over  London,  who  were  merely 
excluded  from  judgment  by  ignorance  of  the  story. 

In  spite  then  of  Emily's  efforts,  the  dinner  was  served 
by  Warmson  and  the  footman  almost  in  silence.  Dartie 
was  sulky,  and  drank  all  he  could  get ;  the  girls  seldom 
talked  to  each  other  at  any  time.  James  asked  once 
where  June  was,  and  what  she  was  doing  with  herself  in 
these  days.  No  one  could  tell  him.  He  sank  back 
into  gloom.  Only  when  Winifred  recounted  how  little 
Publius  had  given  his  bad  penny  to  a  beggar,  did  he 
brighten  up. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "that's  a  clever  little  chap.  I  don't 
know  what '11  become  of  him,  if  he  goes  on  like  this. 
An  intelligent  little  chap,  I  call  him!"  But  it  was 
only  a  flash. 

The  courses  succeeded  one  another  solemnly,  under 
the  electric  light,  which  glared  upon  the  table,  but 
barely  reached  the  principal  ornament  of  the  walls,  a  so- 
called  Sea  Piece  by  Turner,  almost  entirely  composed 
of  cordage  and  drowning  men.  Champagne  was  handed, 
and  then  a  bottle  of  James's  prehistoric  port,  but  as  by 
the  chill  hand  of  some  skeleton. 

At  ten  o'clock  Soames  left;  twice  in  reply  to  questions, 
he  had  said  that  Irene  was  not  well ;  he  felt  he  could  no 
longer  trust  himself.  His  mother  kissed  him  with  her 
large  soft  kiss,  and  he  pressed  her  hand,  a  flush  of 
warmth  in  his  cheeks.  He  walked  away  in  the  cold  wind, 
which  whistled  desolately  round  the  corners  of  the  streets, 
under  a  sky  of  clear  steel-blue,  alive  with  stars;  he 
noticed  neither  their  frosty  greeting,  nor  the  crackle  of 
the  curled-up  plane-leaves,  nor  the  night-women  hurrying 


Soames  Breaks  the  News  357 

in  their  shabby  furs,  nor  the  pinched  faces  of  vagabonds 
at  street  corners.  Winter  was  come!  But  Soames 
hastened  home,  oblivious;  his  hands  trembled  as  he  took 
the  late  letters  from  the  gilt  wire  cage  into  which  they  had 
been  thrust  through  the  slit  in  the  door. 

None  from  Irene. 

He  went  into  the  dining-room;  the  fire  was  bright 
there,  his  chair  drawn  up  to  it,  slippers  ready,  spirit  case, 
and  carven  cigarette  box  on  the  table ;  but  after  staring 
at  it  all  for  a  minute  or  two,  he  turned  out  the  light  and 
went  up-stairs.  There  was  a  fire  too  in  his  dressing- 
room,  but  her  room  was  dark  and  cold.  It  was  into  this 
room  that  Soames  went. 

He  made  a  great  illumination  with  candles,  and  for  a 
long  time  continued  pacing  up  and  down  between  the 
bed  and  the  door.  He  could  not  get  used  to  the  thought 
that  she  had  really  left  him,  and  as  though  still  searching 
for  some  message,  some  reason,  some  reading  of  all  the 
mystery  of  his  married  life,  he  began  opening  every 
recess  and  drawer. 

There  were  her  dresses;  he  had  always  liked,  indeed 
insisted,  that  she  should  be  well-dressed — she  had 
taken  very  few;  two  or  three  at  most,  and  drawer  after 
drawer,  full  of  linen  and  silk  things,  was  untouched. 

Perhaps  after  all  it  was  only  a  freak,  and  she  had  gone 
to  the  seaside  for  a  few  days '  change.  If  only  that  were 
so,  and  she  were  really  coming  back,  he  would  never 
again  do  as  he  had  done  that  fatal  night  before  last, 
never  again  run  that  risk — though  it  was  her  duty,  her 
duty  as  a  wife ;  though  she  did  belong  to  him — he  would 
never  again  run  that  risk ;  she  evidently  was  not  quite 
right  in  her  head  ! 

He  stooped  over  the  drawer  where  she  kept  her  jewels; 
it  was  not  locked,  and  came  open  as  he  pulled;  the  jewel 
box  had  the  key  in  it.  This  surprised  him  until  he 


358  The  Man  of  Property 

remembered  that  it  was  sure  to  be  empty.     He  opened  it. 

It  was  far  from  empty.  Divided,  in  little  green  velvet 
compartments,  were  all  the  things  he  had  given  her,  even 
her  watch,  and  stuck  into  the  recess  that  contained  the 
watch  was  a  three-cornered  note  addressed  "Soames 
Forsyte,"  in  Irene's  handwriting. 

"  I  think  I  have  taken  nothing  that  you  or  your  people 
have  given  me."  And  that  was  all. 

He  looked  at  the  clasps  and  bracelets  of  diamonds  and 
pearls,  at  the  little  flat  gold  watch  with  a  great  dia- 
mond set  in  sapphires,  at  the  chains  and  rings,  each  in  its 
nest,  and  the  tears  rushed  up  in  his  eyes  and  dropped 
upon  them. 

Nothing  that  she  could  have  done,  nothing  that  she  had 
done,  brought  home  to  him  like  this  the  inner  significance 
of  her  act.  For  the  moment,  perhaps,  he  understood 
nearly  all  there  was  to  understand — understood  that  she 
loathed  him,  that  she  had  loathed  him  for  years,  that  for 
all  intents  and  purposes  they  were  like  people  living  in 
different  worlds,  that  there  was  no  hope  for  him,  never 
had  been;  even,  that  she  had  suffered — that  she  was  to 
be  pitied. 

In  that  moment  of  emotion  he  betrayed  the  Forsyte  in 
him — forgot  himself,  his  interests,  his  property — was 
capable  of  almost  anything;  was  lifted  into  the  pure 
ether  of  the  selfless  and  unpractical. 

Such  moments  pass  quickly. 

And  as  though  with  the  tears  he  had  purged  himself 
of  weakness,  he  got  up,  locked  the  box,  and  slowly, 
almost  trembling,  carried  it  with  him  into  the  other  room. 


CHAPTER  XXX 
JUNE'S  VICTORY 

JUNE  had  waited  for  her  chance,  scanning  the  fuller 
columns  of  the  Journals,  morning  and  evening 
with  an  assiduity  which  at  first  puzzled  old  Jolyon; 
and  when  her  chance  came,  she  took  it  with  all  the 
promptitude  and  resolute  tenacity  of  her  character. 

She  will  always  remember  best  in  her  life  that  morning 
when  at  last  she  saw  among  the  reliable  Cause  List  of  the 
Times  newspaper,  under  the  heading  of  Court  XIII.,  Mr. 
Justice  Bentham,  the  case  of  Forsyte  v.  Bosinney. 

Like  a  gambler  who  stakes  his  last  piece  of  money,  she 
had  prepared  to  hazard  her  all  upon  this  throw;  it  was 
not  her  nature  to  contemplate  defeat.  How,  unless  with 
the  instinct  of  a  woman  in  love,  she  knew  that  Bosinney 's 
discomfiture  in  this  action  was  assured,  cannot  be  told — • 
on  this  assumption,  however,  she  laid  her  plans,  as  upon 
a  certainty. 

Half  past  eleven  found  her  at  watch  in  the  gallery  of 
Court  XIII.,  and  there  she  remained  till  the  case  of 
Forsyte  v.  Bosinney  was  over.  Bosinney's  absence  did 
not  disquiet  her ;  she  had  felt  instinctively  that  he  would 
not  defend  himself.  At  the  end  of  the  judgment  she 
hastened  down,  and  took  a  cab  to  his  rooms. 

She  passed  the  open  street-door  and  the  offices  on  the 
three  lower  floors  without  attracting  notice ;  not  till  she 
reached  the  top  did  her  difficulties  begin. 

359 


360  The  Man  of  Property 

Her  ring  was  not  answered;  she  had  now  to  make  up 
her  mind  whether  she  would  go  down  and  ask  the  care- 
taker in  the  basement  to  let  her  in  to  await  Mr.  Bosinney's 
return,  or  remain  patiently  outside  the  door,  trusting  that 
no  one  would  come  up.  She  decided  on  the  latter  course. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  had  passed  in  freezing  vigil  on  the 
landing,  before  it  occurred  to  her  that  Bosinney  had  been 
used  to  leave  the  key  of  his  rooms  under  the  door-mat. 
She  looked  and  found  it  there.  For  some  minutes  she 
could  not  decide  to  make  use  of  it ;  at  last  she  let  herself 
in  and  le'ft  the  door  open  that  any  one  who  came  might 
see  she  was  there  on  business. 

This  was  not  the  same  June  who  had  paid  the  trembling 
visit  five  months  ago;  those  months  of  suffering  and 
restraint  had  made  her  less  sensitive;  she  had  dwelt  on 
this  visit  so  long,  with  such  minuteness,  that  its  terrors 
were  discounted  beforehand.  She  was  not  there  to  fail 
this  time,  for  if  she  failed  no  one  could  help  her. 

Like  some  mother  beast  on  the  watch  over  her  young, 
her  little  quick  figure  never  stood  still  in  that  room,  but 
wandered  from  wall  to  wall,  from  window  to  door 
fingering  now  one  thing,  now  another.  There  was  dust 
everywhere,  the  room  could  not  have  been  cleaned  for 
weeks,  and  June,  quick  to  catch  at  anything  that  should 
buoy  up  her  hope,  saw  in  it  a  sign  that  he  had  been 
obliged,  for  economy's  sake,  to  give  up  his  servant. 

She  looked  into  the  bedroom;  the  bed  was  roughly 
made,  as  though  by  the  hand  of  man.  Listening  intently 
she  darted  in,  and  peered  into  his  cupboards.  A  few 
shirts  and  collars,  a  pair  of  muddy  boots — the  room  was 
bare  even  of  garments. 

She  stole  back  to  the  sitting-room,  and  now  she  noticed 
the  absence  of  all  the  little  things  he  had  set  store  by.  The 
clock  that  had  been  his  mother's,  the  field-glasses  that 
had  hung  over  the  sofa ;  two  really  valuable  old  prints  of 


June's  Victory  361 

Harrow,  where  his  father  had  been  at  school,  and  last, 
not  least,  the  piece  of  Japanese  pottery  she  herself  had 
given  him.  All  were  gone;  and  in  spite  of  the  rage 
roused  within  her  championing  soul  at  the  thought  that 
the  world  should  treat  him  thus,  their  disappearance 
augured  happily  for  the  success  of  her  plan. 

It  was  while  looking  at  the  spot  where  the  piece  of 
Japanese  pottery  had  stood  that  she  felt  a  strange 
certainty  of  being  watched,  and,  turning,  saw  Irene  in 
the  open  doorway. 

The  two  stood  gazing  at  each  other  for  a  minute  in 
silence;  then  June  walked  forward  and  held  out  her 
hand.  Irene  did  not  take  it. 

When  her  hand  was  refused,  June  put  it  behind  her. 
Her  eyes  grew  steady  with  anger;  she  waited  for  Irene 
to  speak;  and  thus  waiting,  took  in,  with  who-knows- 
what  rage  of  jealousy,  suspicion,  and  curiosity,  every 
detail  of  her  friend's  face  and  dress  and  figure. 

Irene  was  clothed  in  her  long  grey  fur;  the  travelling 
cap  on  her  head  left  a  wave  of  gold  hair  visible  above  her 
forehead.  The  soft  fulness  of  the  coat  made  her  face  as 
small  as  a  child's. 

Unlike  June's  cheeks,  her  cheeks  had  no  colour  in 
them,  but  were  ivory  white  and  pinched  as  if  with  cold. 
Dark  circles  lay  round  her  eyes.  In  one  hand  she  held  a 
bunch  of  violets. 

She  looked  back  at  June,  no  smile  on  her  lips;  and  with 
those  great  dark  eyes  fastened  on  her,  the  girl,  for  all  her 
startled  anger,  felt  something  of  the  old  spell. 

She  spoke  first,  after  all. 

"What  have  you  come  for ? "  But  the  feeling  that  she 
herself  was  being  asked  the  same  question,  made  her  add: 
"This  horrible  case.  I  came  to  tell  him — he  has  lost  it." 

Irene  did  not  speak,  her  eyes  never  moved  from  June's 
face,  and  the  girl  cried: 


362  The  Man  of  Property 

"Don't  stand  there  as  if  you  were  made  of  stone! " 

Irene  laughed:   "I  wish  to  God  I  were! " 

But  June  turned  away:  "  Stop! "  she  cried,  "don't  tell 
me!  I  don't  want  to  hear!  I  don't  want  to  hear  what 
you've  come  for.  I  don't  want  to  hear!"  And  like 
some  uneasy  spirit,  she  began  swiftly  walking  to  and  fro. 
Suddenly  she  broke  out: 

"I  was  here  first.  We  can't  both  stay  here  to- 
gether!' ' 

On  Irene's  face  a  smile  wandered  up,  and  died  out  like  a 
flicker  of  firelight.  She  did  not  move.  And  then  it  was 
that  June  perceived  under  the  softness  and  immobility 
of  this  figure  something  desperate  and  resolved;  some- 
thing not  to  be  turned  away,  something  dangerous. 
She  tore  off  her  hat,  and,  putting  both  hands  to  her  brow 
pressed  back  the  bronze  mass  of  her  hair. 

"You  have  no  right  here! "   she  cried  defiantly. 

Irene  answered:   "I  have  no  right  anywhere " 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  have  left  Soames.     You  always  wanted  me  to!" 

June  put  her  hands  over  her  ears. 

"Don't!  I  don't  want  to  hear  anything — I  don't 
want  to  know  anything.  It's  impossible  to  fight  with 
you!  What  makes  you  stand  like  that?  Why  don't 
you  go?" 

Irene's  lips  moved;  she  seemed  to  be  saying:  "Where 
should  I  go?" 

June  turned  to  the  window.  She  could  see  the  face 
of  a  clock  down  in  the  street.  It  was  nearly  four.  At 
any  moment  he  might  come!  She  looked  back  across 
her  shoulder,  and  her  face  was  distorted  with  anger. 

But  Irene  had  not  moved ;  in  her  gloved  hands  she 
ceaselessly  turned  and  twisted  the  little  bunch  of  violets. 

The  tears  of  rage  and  disappointment  rolled  down 
June's  cheeks. 


June's  Victory  363 

"How  could  you  come ? "  she  said.  ' '  You  have  been  a 
false  friend  to  me!" 

Again  Irene  laughed.  June  saw  that  she  had  played  a 
wrong  card,  and  broke  down. 

' '  Why  have  you  come  ? ' '  she  sobbed.  ' '  You ' ve  ruined 
my  life,  and  now  you  want  to  ruin  his! " 

Irene's  mouth  quivered;  her  eyes  met  June's  with  a 
look  so  mournful  that  the  girl  cried  out  in  the  midst  of 
her  sobbing,  "No,  no! " 

But  Irene's  head  bent  till  it  touched  her  breast.  She 
turned,  and  went  quickly  out,  hiding  her  lips  with  the 
little  bunch  of  violets. 

June  ran  to  the  door.  She  heard  the  footsteps  going 
down  and  down.  She  called  out:  "Come  back,  Irene! 
Comeback!" 

The  footsteps  died  away. 

Bewildered  and  torn,  the  girl  stood  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs.  Why  had  Irene  gone,  leaving  her  mistress  of  the 
field?  What  did  it  mean?  Had  she  really  given  him 

up  to  her?  Or  had  she ?  And  she  was  the  prey 

of  a  gnawing  uncertainty.  .  .  .  Bosinney  did  not 
come. 

About  six  o'clock  that  afternoon  old  Jolyon  returned 
from  Wistaria  Avenue,  where  now  almost  every  day  he 
spent  some  hours,  and  asked  if  his  grand-daughter  were 
upstairs.  On  being  told  that  she  had  just  come  in,  he 
sent  up  to  her  room  to  request  her  to  come  down  and 
speak  to  him. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  tell  her  that  he  was 
reconciled  with  her  father.  In  future  bygones  must  be 
bygones.  He  would  no  longer  live  alone,  or  practically 
alone,  in  this  great  house;  he  was  going  to  give  it  up, 
and  take  one  in  the  country  for  his  son,  where  they  could 
all  go  and  live  together.  If  June  did  not  like  this,  she 
could  have  an  allowance  and  live  by  herself.  It  would  n't 


364  The  Man  of  Property 

make  much  difference  to  her,  for  it  was  a  long  time  since 
she  had  shown  him  any  affection. 

But  when  June  came  down,  her  face  was  pinched  and 
piteous;  there  was  a  strained,  pathetic  look  in  her  eyes. 
She  snuggled  up  in  her  old  attitude  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair,  and  what  he  said  compared  but  poorly  with  the 
clear,  authoritative,  injured  statement  he  had  thought 
out  with  much  care.  His  heart  felt  sore,  as  the  great 
heart  of  a  mother-bird  feels  sore  when  its  youngling  flies 
and  bruises  its  wing.  His  words  halted,  as  though  he 
were  apologising  for  having  at  last  deviated  from  the 
path  of  virtue,  and  succumbed,  in  defiance  of  sounder 
principles,  to  his  more  natural  instincts. 

He  seemed  nervous  lest,  in  thus  announcing  his  inten- 
tions, he  should  be  setting  his  grand-daughter  a  bad 
example;  and  now  that  he  came  to  the  point, his  way  of 
putting  the  suggestion  that,  if  she  did  n't  like  it,  she  could 
live  by  herself  and  lump  it,  was  delicate  in  the  extreme. 

"And,  if  by  any  chance,  my  darling,"  he  said,  "you 
found  you  did  n't  get  on  with  them,  why,  I  could  make 
that  all  right.  You  could  have  what  you  liked.  We 
could  find  a  little  flat  in  London  where  you  could  set  up, 
and  I  could  be  running  to  continually.  But  the  children," 
he  added,  "are  dear  little  things!" 

Then,  in  the  midst  of  this  grave,  rather  transparent  ex- 
planation of  changed  policy,  his  eyes  twinkled.  "  This  '11 
astonish  Timothy's  weak  nerves.  That  precious  young 
thing  will  have  something  to  say  about  this,  or  I'm  a 
Dutchman!" 

June  had  not  yet  spoken.  Perched  thus  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair,  with  her  head  above  him,  her  face  was  invisible. 
But  presently  he  felt  her  warm  cheek  against  his  own, 
and  knew  that,  at  all  everts,  there  was  nothing  very 
alarming  in  her  attitude  towards  his  news.  He  began 
to  take  courage. 


June's  Victory  365 

"You'll  like  your  father, "  he  said — "an  amiable  chap. 
Never  was  much  push  about  him,  but  easy  to  get  on  with. 
You'll  find  him  artistic  and  all  that." 

And  old  Jolyon  bethought  him  of  the  dozen  or  so 
water  colour  drawings  all  carefully  locked  up  in  his  bed- 
room ;  for  now  that  his  son  was  going  to  become  a  man 
of  property  he  did  not  think  them  quite  such  poor  things 
as  heretofore. 

"  As  to  your — your  stepmother, "  he  said,  using  the  word 
with  some  little  difficulty,  "I  call  her  a  refined  woman — 
a  bit  of  a  Mrs.  Gummidge,  I  should  n't  wonder — but 
very  fond  of  Jo.  And  the  children,"  he  repeated: — 
indeed,  this  sentence  ran  like  music  through  all  his 
solemn  self -justification — "are  sweet  little  things!" 

If  June  had  known,  those  words  but  reincarnated  that 
tender  love  for  little  children,  for  the  young  and  weak, 
which  in  the  past  had  made  him  desert  his  son  for  her 
tiny  self,  and  now,  as  the  cycle  rolled,  was  taking  him 
from  her. 

But  he  began  to  get  alarmed  at  her  silence,  and  asked 
impatiently:  "Well,  what  do  you  say?" 

June  slid  down  to  his  knee,  and  she  in  her  turn  began 
her  tale.  She  thought  it  would  all  go  splendidly;  she 
did  not  see  any  difficulty,  and  she  did  not  care  a  bit 
what  people  thought. 

Old  Jolyon  wriggled.  H'm!  then  people  would  think! 
He  had  thought  that  after  all  these  years  perhaps  they 
would  n't!  Well,  he  could  n't  help  it!  Nevertheless,  he 
could  not  approve  of  his  grand-daughter's  way  of  putting 
it — she  ought  to  mind  what  people  thought! 

Yet  he  said  nothing.  His  feelings  were  too  mixed,  too 
inconsistent  for  expression. 

No — went  on  June — she  did  not  care;  what  business 
was  it  of  theirs?  There  was  only  one  thing — and  with 
her  cheek  pressing  against  his  knee,  old  Jolyon  knew  at 


366  The  Man  of  Property 

once  that  this  something  was  no  trifle:  As  he  was  going 
to  buy  a  house  in  the  country,  would  he  not — to  please 
her — buy  that  splendid  house  of  Soames's  at  Robin 
Hill?  It  was  finished,  it  was  perfectly  beautiful,  and 
no  one  would  live  in  it  now.  They  would  all  be  so  happy 
there! 

Old  Jolyon  was  on  the  alert  at  once.  Was  n't  the 
"man  of  property"  going  to  live  in  his  new  house,  then? 
He  never  alluded  to  Soames  now  but  under  this  title. 

"No" — June  said — "he  is  not.  I  know  that  he 
is  not!" 

How  did  she  know? 

She  could  not  tell  him,  but  she  knew.  She  knew  nearly 
for  certain!  It  was  most  unlikely;  circumstances  had 
changed!  Irene's  words  still  rang  in  her  head:  "I  have 
left  Soames!  Where  should  I  go?" 

But  she  kept  silence  about  that. 

If  her  grandfather  would  only  buy  it  and  settle  that 
wretched  claim  that  ought  never  to  have  been  made  on 
Phil!  It  would  be  the  very  best  thing  for  everybody, 
and  everything — everything  might  come  straight! 

And  June  put  her  lips  to  his  forehead,  and  pressed 
them  close. 

But  old  Jolyon  freed  himself  from  her  caress,  his  face 
wore  the  judicial  look  which  came  upon  it  when  he  dealt 
with  affairs.  He  asked :  What  did  she  mean  ?  There  was 
something  behind  all  this — had  she  been  seeing  Bosinney  ? 

June  answered:  "No;  but  I  have  been  to  his  rooms." 

"Been  to  his  rooms?     Who  took  you  there?" 

June  faced  him  steadily.  "I  went  alone.  He  has 
lost  that  case.  I  don't  care  whether  it  was  right  or 
wrong.  I  want  to  help  him;  and  I  will!" 

Old  Jolyon  asked  again:  "Have  you  seen  him?"  His 
glance  seemed  to  pierce  right  through  the  girl's  eyes  into 
her  soul. 


June's  Victory  367 

Again  June  answered:  "No;  he  was  not  there.  I 
waited,  but  he  did  not  come." 

Old  Jolyon  made  a  movement  of  relief.  She  had  risen 
and  looked  down  at  him;  so  slight,  and  light,  and  young, 
but  so  fixed,  and  so  determined;  and  disturbed,  vexed, 
as  he  was,  he  could  not  frown  away  that  fixed  look. 
The  feeling  of  being  beaten,  of  the  reins  having  slipped, 
of  being  old  and  tired,  mastered  him. 

"Ah!  "  he  said  at  last,  "you  '11  get  yourself  into  a  mess 
one  of  these  days,  I  can  see.  You  want  your  own  way 
in  everything." 

Visited  by  one  of  his  strange  bursts  of  philosophy,  he 
added:  "Like  that  you  were  born;  and  like  that  you  '11 
stay  until  you  die! " 

And  he,  who  in  his  dealings  with  men  of  business,  with 
Boards,  with  Forsytes  of  all  descriptions,  with  such  as 
were  not  Forsytes,  had  always  had  his  own  way,  looked 
at  his  indomitable  grandchild  sadly — for  he  felt  in  her 
that  quality  which  above  all  others  he  unconsciously 
admired. 

"Do  you  know  what  they  say  is  going  on?"  he  said 
slowly. 

June  crimsoned. 

"Yes — no.  I  know — and  I  don't  know — I  don't 
care! "  and  she  stamped  her  foot. 

"I  believe,"  said  old  Jolyon,  dropping  his  eyes,  "that 
you  'd  have  him  if  he  were  dead ! " 

There  was  a  long  silence  before  he  spoke  again. 

"But  as  to  buying  this  house — you  don't  know  what 
you  're  talking  about ! " 

June  said  that  she  did.  She  knew  that  he  could  get 
it  if  he  wanted.  He  would  only  have  to  give  what  it  cost. 

"What  it  cost!  You  know  nothing  about  it.  I  won't 
go  to  Soames — I  '11  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  that 
young  man." 


368  The  Man  of  Property 

"But  you  needn't;  you  can  go  to  Uncle  James.  If 
you  can't  buy  the  house,  will  you  pay  this  law-suit 
claim?  I  know  he  is  terribly  hard  up — I've  seen  it* 
You  can  stop  it  out  of  my  money! " 

A  twinkle  came  into  old  Jolyon's  eyes. 

"Stop  it  out  of  your  money!  A  pretty  way!  And 
what  will  you  do,  pray,  without  your  money?" 

But  secretly,  the  idea  of  wresting  the  house  from 
James  and  his  son  had  begun  to  take  hold  of  him.  He 
had  heard  on  Forsyte  'Change  much  comment,  much 
rather  doubtful  praise  of  this  house.  It  was  "too 
artistic,"  but  a  fine  place.  To  take  from  the  "man  of 
property"  that  on  which  he  had  set  his  heart,  would  be 
a  crowning  triumph  over  James,  practical  proof  that 
he  was  going  to  make  a  man  of  property  of  Jo,  to  put 
him  back  in  his  proper  position,  and  there  to  keep  him 
secure.  Justice  once  for  all  on  those  who  had  chosen  to 
regard  his  son  as  a  poor,  penniless  outcast ! 

He  would  see,  he  would  see!  It  might  be  out  of  the 
question;  he  was  not  going  to  pay  a  fancy  price,  but  if 
it  could  be  done,  why,  perhaps  he  would  do  it ! 

And  still  more  secretly  he  knew  that  he  could  not 
refuse  her. 

But  he  did  not  commit  himself.  He  would  think  it 
over — he  said  to  June. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
BOSINNEY'S  DEPARTURE 

OLD  Jolyon  was  not  given  to  hasty  decisions;    it  is 
probable  that  he  would  have  continued  to  think 
over  the    purchase    of  the   house  at   Robin   Hill,    had 
not  June's  face  told  him  that  he  would  have  no  peace 
until  he  acted. 

At  breakfast  next  morning  she  asked  him  what  time 
she  should  order  the  carriage. 

"Carriage!"  he  said,  with  some  appearance  of  inno- 
cence ;  ' ' what  for ?  I'm  not  going  out ! ' ' 

She  answered:  "If  you  don't  go  early,  you  won't 
catch  Uncle  James  before  he  goes  into  the  City." 

"James!  what  about  your  Uncle  James?" 

"The  house,"  she  replied,  in  such  a  voice  that  he  no 
longer  pretended  ignorance. 

"  I  've  not  made  up  my  mind, "  he  said. 

"You  must!     You  must!     Oh!  Gran— think  of  me!" 

Old  Jolyon  grumbled  out:  "  Think  of  you — I  'm 
always  thinking  of  you,  but  you  don't  think  of  yourself; 
you  don't  think  what  you  're  letting  yourself  in  for. 
Well,  order  the  carriage  at  ten!" 

At  a  quarter  past  he  was  placing  his  umbrella  in  the 
stand  at  Park  Lane — he  did  not  choose  to  relinquish  his 
hat  and  coat;  telling  Warmson  that  he  wanted  to  see 
his  master,  he  went,  without  being  announced,  into  the 
study,  and  sat  down. 

James  was  still  in  the  dining-room  talking  to  Soames, 

369 
24 


370  The  Man  of  Property 

who  had  come  round  again  before  breakfast.  On  hearing 
who  his  visitor  was,  he  muttered  nervously:  "Now, 
what  's  he  want,  I  wonder?" 

He  then  got  up. 

"Well,"  he  said  to  Soames,  "don't  you  go  doing  any- 
thing in  a  hurry.  The  first  thing  is  to  find  out  where  she 
is — I  should  go  to  Stainer's  about  it;  they  're  the  best 
men,  if  they  can't  find  her,  nobody  can."  And  suddenly 
moved  to  strange  softness,  he  muttered  to  himself: 
"Poor  little  thing!  I  can't  tell  what  she  was  thinking 
about! "  and  went  out  blowing  his  nose. 

Old  Jolyon  did  not  rise  on  seeing  his  brother,  but  held 
out  his  hand,  and  exchanged  with  him  the  clasp  of  a 
Forsyte. 

James  took  another  chair  by  the  table,  and  leaned  his 
head  on  his  hand. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "how  are  you?  We  don't  see  much 
of  you  nowadays!" 

Old  Jolyon  paid  no  attention  to  the  remark. 

"How's  Emily?"  he  asked;  and  waiting  for  no  reply, 
went  on:  "I've  come  to  see  you  about  this  affair  of 
young  Bosinney's. '  I'm  told  that  new  house  of  his  is  a 
white  elephant." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  a  white  elephant," 
said  James,  "I  know  he's  lost  his  case,  and  I  should  say 
he'll  go  bankrupt." 

Old  Jolyon  was  not  slow  to  seize  the  opportunity  this 
gave  him. 

"I  should  n't  wonder  a  bit!"  he  agreed;  "and  if 
he  goes  bankrupt,  the  'man  of  property' — that  is, 
Soames  '11  be  out  of  pocket.  Now,  what  I  was  thinking 
was  this:  If  he 's  not  going  to  live  there " 

Seeing  both  surprise  and  suspicion  in  James's  eye,  he 
quickly  went  on:  "I  don't  want  to  know  anything;  I 
suppose  Irene's  put  her  foot  down — it's  not  material  to 


Bosinney's  Departure  371 

me.  But  I,m  thinking  of  a  house  in  the  country  myself, 
not  too  far  from  London,  and  if  it  suited  me  I  don't  say 
that  I  might  n't  look  at  it,  at  a  price." 

James  listened  to  this  statement  with  a  strange  mixture 
of  doubt,  suspicion,  and  relief,  merging  into  a  dread  of 
something  behind,  and  tinged  with  the  remains  of  his 
old  undoubted  reliance  upon  his  elder  brother's  good 
faith  and  judgment.  There  was  anxiety,  too,  as  to  what 
old  Jolyon  could  have  heard  and  how  he  had  heard  it ; 
and  a  sort  of  hopefulness  arising  from  the  thought  that  if 
June's  connection  with  Bosinney  were  completely  at  an 
end,  her  grandfather  would  hardly  seem  anxious  to  help 
the  young  fellow.  Altogether  he  was  puzzled ;  as  he  did 
not  like  either  to  show  this,  or  to  commit  himself  in  any 
way,  he  said: 

"They  tell  me  you're  altering  your  will  in  favour  of 
your  son." 

He  had  not  been  told  this;  he  had  merely  added  the 
fact  of  having  seen  old  Jolyon  with  his  son  and  grand- 
children to  the  fact  that  he  had  taken  his  will  away 
from  Forsyte,  Bustard  &  Forsyte.  The  shot  went  home. 

"Who  told  you  that ? "  asked  old  Jolyon. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  James;  "I  can't  re- 
member names — I  know  somebody  told  me.  Soames 
spent  a  lot  of  money  on  this  house ;  he 's  not  likely  to  part 
with  it  except  at  a  good  price." 

' '  Well, ' '  said  old  Jolyon,  "  if  he  thinks  I  'm  going  to  pay 
a  fancy  price,  he 's  mistaken.  I  've  not  got  the  money  to 
throw  away  that  he  seems  to  have.  Let  him  try  and  sell 
it  at  a  forced  sale,  and  see  what  he  '11  get.  It 's  not  every 
man's  house,  I  hear!" 

James,  who  was  secretly  also  of  this  opinion,  answered 
"  It 's  a  gentleman's  house.  Soames  is  here  now  if  you  'd 
like  to  see  him." 

"No,"  said  old  Jolyon,  "I  have  n't  got  as  far  as  that; 


372  The  Man  of  Property 

and  I  'm  not  likely  to,  I  can  see  that  very  well  if  I  'm  met 
in  this  manner!" 

James  was  a  little  cowed ;  when  it  came  to  the  actual 
figures  of  a  commercial  transaction  he  was  sure  of  him- 
self, for  then  he  was  dealing  with  facts,  not  with  men; 
but  preliminary  negotiations  such  as  these  made  him 
nervous — he  never  knew  quite  how  far  he  could  go. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  know  nothing  about  it.  Soames, 
he  tells  me  nothing ;  I  should  think  he  'd  entertain  it — 
it  's  a  question  of  price. " 

"Oh!"  said  old  Jolyon,  "don't  let  him  make  a  favour 
of  it! "  He  placed  his  hat  on  his  head  in  dudgeon. 

The  door  was  opened  and  Soames  came  in. 

"There  's  a  policeman  out  here,"  he  said  with  his  half 
smile,  "for  Uncle  Jolyon. " 

Old  Jolyon  looked  at  him  angrily,  and  James  said: 
"A  policeman?  I  don't  know  anything  about  a  police- 
man. But  I  suppose  you  know  something  about  him," 
he  added  to  old  Jolyon  with  a  look  of  suspicion:  "I 
suppose  you  'd  better  see  him!" 

In  the  hall  an  Inspector  of  Police  stood  stolidly  re- 
garding with  heavy-lidded  pale-blue  eyes  the  fine  old 
English  furniture  picked  up  by  James  at  the  famous 
Mavrojano  sale  in  Portman  Square.  "You'll  find  my 
brother  in  there, "  said  James. 

The  Inspector  raised  his  fingers  respectfully  to  his 
peaked  hat,  and  entered  the  study. 

James  saw  him  go  in  with  a  strange  sensation. 

"Well,"  he  said  to  Soames,  "I  suppose  we  must  wait 
and  see  what  he  wants.  Your  uncle  's  been  here  about 
the  house!" 

He  returned  with  Soames  into  the  dining-room,  but 
could  not  rest. 

"Now  what  does  he  want ? "  he  murmured  again. 

"Who?"     replied    Soames,    "the    Inspector?    They 


Bosinney's  Departure  373 

sent  him  round  from  Stanhope  Gate,  that 's  all  I  know. 
That  'non-conformist'  of  Uncle  Jolyon's  has  been 
pilfering,  I  should  n't  wonder! " 

But  in  spite  of  his  calmness,  he,  too,  was  ill  at  ease. 

At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  old  Jolyon  came  in. 

He  walked  up  to  the  table,  and  stood  there  perfectly 
silent  pulling  at  his  long  white  moustaches.  James  gazed 
up  at  him  with  opening  mouth;  he  had  never  seen  his 
brother  look  like  this. 

Old  Jolyon  raised  his  hand,  and  said  slowly: 

"Young  Bosinney  has  been  run  over  in  the  fog  and 
killed. " 

Then  standing  above  his  brother  and  his  nephew,  and 
looking  down  at  them  with  his  deep  eyes:  "There  's — 
some — talk — of — suicide,"  he  said. 

James's  jaw  dropped.  "Suicide!  What  should  he  do 
that  for?" 

Old  Jolyon  answered  sternly:  "God  knows,  if  you  and 
your  son  don't!" 

But  James  did  not  reply. 

For  all  men  of  great  age,  even  for  all  Forsytes,  life  has 
had  bitter  experiences.  The  passer-by,  who  sees  them 
wrapped  in  cloaks  of  custom,  wealth,  and  comfort,  would 
never  suspect  that  such  black  shadows  had  fallen  on 
their  roads.  To  every  man  of  great  age — to  Sir  Walter 
Bentham  himself — the  idea  of  suicide  has  once  at  least 
been  present  in  the  ante-room  of  his  soul ;  on  the  threshold 
waiting  to  enter,  held  out  from  the  inmost  chamber  by 
some  chance  reality,  some  vague  fear,  some  painful  hope. 
To  Forsytes  that  final  renunciation  of  property  is  hard. 
Oh!  it  is  hard!  Seldom — perhaps  never — can  they  achieve 
it;  and  yet,  how  near  have  they  not  sometimes  been! 

So  even  with  James!  Then  in  the  medley  of  his 
thoughts,  he  broke  out:  "Why  I  saw  it  in  the  paper 
yesterday:  'Run  over  in  the  fog!'  They  did  n't  know 


374  The  Man  of  Property 

his  name! "  He  turned  from  one  face  to  the  other  in  his 
confusion  of  soul;  but  instinctively  all  the  time  he  was 
rejecting  that  rumour  of  suicide.  He  dared  not  enter- 
tain this  thought,  so  against  his  interest,  against  the 
interest  of  his  son,  of  every  Forsyte.  He  strove  against  it ; 
and  as  his  nature  ever  unconsciously  rejected  that  which 
it  could  not  with  safety  accept,  so  gradually  he  overcame 
this  fear.  It  was  an  accident!  It  must  have  been! 

Old  Jolyon  broke  in  on  his  reverie. 

"Death  was  instantaneous.  He  lay  all  yesterday  at 
the  hospital.  There  was  nothing  to  tell  them  who  he 
was.  I  am  going  there  now ;  you  and  your  son  had  better 
come  too." 

No  one  opposing  this  command  he  led  the  way  from 
the  room. 

The  day  was  still  and  clear  and  bright,  and  driving 
over  to  Park  Lane  from  Stanhope  Gate,  old  Jolyon  had 
had  the  carriage  open.  Sitting  back  on  the  padded 
cushions,  finishing  his  cigar,  he  had  noticed  with  pleasure 
the  keen  crispness  of  the  air,  the  bustle  of  the  cabs  and 
people;  the  strange,  almost  Parisian,  alacrity  that  the 
first  fine  day  will  bring  into  London  streets  after  a  spell 
of  fog  or  rain.  And  he  had  felt  so  happy;  he  had  not 
felt  like  it  for  months.  His  confession  to  June  was  off 
his  mind;  he  had  the  prospect  of  his  son's,  above  all, 
of  his  grandchildren's  company  in  the  future — (he  had 
appointed  to  meet  young  Jolyon  at  the  Hotch  Potch 
that  very  morning  to  discuss  it  again) ;  and  there  was 
the  pleasurable  excitement  of  a  coming  encounter,  a 
coming  victory,  over  James  and  the  ' '  man  of  property ' ' 
in  the  matter  of  the  house. 

He  had  the  carriage  closed  now ;  he  had  no  heart  to  look 
on  gaiety ;  nor  was  it  right  that  Forsytes  should  be  seen 
driving  with  an  Inspector  of  Police. 

In  that  carriage  the  Inspector  spoke  again  of  the  death: 


Bosinney's  Departure  375 

"  It  was  not  so  very  thick  just  there.  The  driver  says 
the  gentleman  must  have  had  time  to  see  what  he  was 
about,  he  seemed  to  walk  right  into  it.  It  appears  that 
he  was  very  hard  up,  we  found  several  pawn  tickets  at 
his  rooms,  his  account  at  the  bank  is  overdrawn,  and 
there  's  this  case  in  to-day's  papers,"  his  cold  blue  eyes 
travelled  from  one  to  another  of  the  three  Forsytes  in 
the  carriage. 

Old  Jolyon  watching  from  his  corner  saw  his  brother's 
face  change,  and  the  brooding,  worried,  look  deepen 
on  it.  At  the  Inspector's  words,  indeed,  all  James's 
doubts  and  fears  revived.  Hard — up — pawn — tickets — 
an  overdrawn  account!  These  words  that  had  all  his 
life  been  a  far-off  nightmare  to  him  seemed  to  make  un- 
cannily real  that  suspicion  of  suicide  which  must  on  no 
account  be  entertained.  He  sought  his  son's  eye;  but 
lynx-eyed,  taciturn,  immovable,  Soames  gave  no  answer- 
ing look.  And  to  old  Jolyon  watching,  divining  the 
league  of  mutual  defence  between  them,  there  came  an 
overmastering  desire  to  have  his  own  son  at  his  side, 
as  though  this  visit  to  the  dead  man's  body  was  a  battle 
in  which  otherwise  he  must  single-handed  meet  those 
two.  And  the  thought  of  how  to  keep  June's  name  out 
of  the  business  kept  whirring  in  his  brain.  James  had 
his  son  to  support  him!  Why  should  he  not  send  for  Jo ? 

Taking  out  his  card-case,  he  pencilled  the  following 
message: 

' '  Come  round  at  once.    I ' ve  sent  the  carriage  for  you. ' ' 

On  getting  out  he  gave  his  card  to  his  coachman,  telling 
him  to  drive  as  fast  as  possible  to  the  Hotch  Potch  Club, 
and  if  Mr.  Jolyon  Forsyte  were  there  to  give  him  the 
card  and  bring  him  at  once.  If  not  there  yet,  he  was 
to  wait  till  he  came. 

He  followed  the  others  slowly  up  the  steps,  leaning  on 
his  umbrella,  and  stood  a  moment  to  get  his  breath. 


376  The  Man  of  Property 

The  Inspector  said:  "This  is  the  mortuary,  sir.  But 
take  your  time." 

In  the  bare,  white -walled  room,  empty  of  all  but  a 
streak  of  sunshine  smeared  along  the  dustless  floor,  lay 
a  form  covered  by  a  sheet.  With  a  huge  steady  hand 
the  Inspector  took  the  hem  and  turned  it  back.  A 
sightless  face  gazed  up  at  them,  and  on  either  side  of 
that  sightless  defiant  face  the  three  Forsytes  gazed  down ; 
in  each  one  of  them  the  secret  emotions,  fears,  and  pity 
of  his  own  nature  rose  and  fell  like  the  rising,  falling 
waves  of  life,  whose  wash  those  white  walls  barred  out 
now  for  ever  from  Bosinney.  And  in  each  one  of  them 
the  trend  of  his  nature,  the  odd  essential  spring,  that 
moved  him  in  fashions  minutely,  unalterably  different 
from  those  of  every  other  human  being,  forced  him  to  a 
different  attitude  of  thought.  Far  from  the  others,  yet 
inscrutably  close,  each  stood  thus,  alone  with  death, 
silent,  his  eyes  lowered. 

The  Inspector  asked  softly: 

"You  identify  the  gentleman,  sir?" 

Old  Jolyon  raised  his  head  and  nodded.  He  looked 
at  his  brother  opposite,  at  that  long,  lean  figure  brooding 
over  the  dead  man,  with  face  dusky  red,  and  strained 
grey  eyes;  and  at  the  figure  of  Soames  white  and  still 
by  his  father's  side.  And  all  that  he  had  felt  against 
those  two  was  gone  like  smoke  in  the  long  white  presence 
of  Death.  Whence  comes  it,  how  comes  it — Death? 
Sudden  reverse  of  all  that  goes  before;  blind  setting 
forth  on  a  path  that  leads  to — where  ?  Dark  quenching 
of  the  fire!  The  heavy,  brutal  crushing-out  that  all 
men  must  go  through,  keeping  their  eyes  clear  and  brave 
unto  the  end!  Small  and  of  no  import,  insects  though 
they  are!  And  across  old  Jolyon's  face  there  flitted  a 
gleam,  for  Soames,  murmuring  to  the  Inspector,  crept 
noiselessly  away. 


Bosinney's  Departure  377 

Then  suddenly  James  raised  his  eyes.  There  was  a 
queer  appeal  in  that  suspicious  troubled  look:  "I  know 
I  'm  no  match  for  you, "  it  seemed  to  say.  And,  hunting 
for  a  handkerchief  he  wiped  his  brow;  then,  bending 
sorrowful  and  lank  over  the  dead  man,  he,  too,  turned 
and  hurried  out. 

Old  Jolyon  stood,  still  as  death,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
body.  Who  shall  tell  of  what  he  was  thinking?  Of 
himself,  when  his  hair  was  brown  like  the  hair  of  that 
young  fellow  dead  before  him?  Of  himself,  with  his 
battle  just  beginning,  the  long,  long  battle  he  had  loved; 
the  battle  that  was  over  for  this  young  man  almost  before 
it  had  begun?  Of  his  grand-daughter,  with  her  broken 
hopes?  Of  that  other  woman?  Of  the  strangeness 
and  the  pity  of  it?  And  the  irony,  inscrutable  and  bit- 
ter, of  that  end  ?  Justice!  There  was  no  justice  for  men, 
for  they  were  ever  in  the  dark! 

Or  perhaps  in  his  philosophy  he  thought:  Better  to 
be  out  of  it  all!  Better  to  have  done  with  it,  like  this 
poor  youth. 

Some  one  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

A  tear  started  up  and  wetted  his  eyelash. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  'm  no  good  here.  I'd  better 
be  going.  You'll  come  to  me  as  soon  as  you  can,  Jo," 
and  with  his  head  bowed  he  went  away. 

It  was  young  Jolyon's  turn  to  take  his  stand  beside  the 
dead  man,  round  whose  fallen  body  he  seemed  to  see  all 
the  Forsytes  breathless  and  prostrated.  The  stroke 
had  fallen  too  swiftly. 

The  forces  underlying  every  tragedy — forces  that  take 
no  denial,  working  through  cross  currents  to  their  ironical 
end,  had  met  and  fused  with  a  thunder-clap,  flung  out  the 
victim,  and  flattened  to  the  ground  all  those  that  stood 
around.  Or  so  at  all  events  young  Jolyon  seemed  to  see 
them,  lying  around  Bosinney's  body. 


378  The  Man  of  Property 

He  asked  the  Inspector  to  tell  what  had  happened, 
and  the  latter,  like  a  man  who  does  not  every  day  get 
such  a  chance,  again  detailed  such  facts  as  were  known. 

"There's  more  here,  sir,  however,"  he  said,  "than 
meets  the  eye.  I  don't  believe  in  suicide,  nor  in  pure 
accident,  myself.  It 's  more  likely,  I  think,  that  he  was 
suffering  under  great  stress  of  mind,  and  took  no  notice 
of  things  about  him.  Perhaps  you  can  throw  some 
light  on  these." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  little  packet  and  laid  it  on 
the  table.  Carefully  undoing  it,  he  revealed  a  lady's 
handkerchief,  pinned  through  the  folds  with  a  pin  of 
discoloured  Venetian  gold,  the  stone  of  which  had  fallen 
from  the  socket.  A  scent  of  dried  violets  rose  to  young 
Jolyon's  nostrils. 

"Found  in  his  breast  pocket,"  said  the  Inspector; 
"  the  name  has  been  cut  away ! " 

Young  Jolyon  with  difficulty  answered:  "I'm  afraid 
I  cannot  help  you! "  But  vividly  there  rose  before  him 
the  face  he  had  seen  light  up,  so  tremulous  and  glad,  at 
Bosinney's  coming!  Of  her  he  thought  more  than  of  his 
own  daughter,  more  than  of  them  all — of  her  with  the 
dark,  soft  glance,  the  delicate  passive  face,  waiting  for 
the  dead  man,  waiting  even  at  that  moment,  perhaps, 
still  and  patient  in  the  sunlight. 

He  walked  sorrowfully  away  from  the  hospital  towards 
his  father's  house,  reflecting  that  this  death  would  break 
up  the  Forsyte  family.  The  stroke  had  indeed  slipped 
past  their  defences  into  the  very  wood  of  their  tree. 
They  might  flourish  to  all  appearance  as  before,  pre- 
serving a  brave  show  before  the  eyes  of  London,  but  the 
trunk  was  dead,  withered  by  the  same  flash  that  had 
stricken  down  Bosinney.  And  now  the  saplings  would 
take  its  place,  each  one  a  new  custodian  of  the  sense  of 
property. 


Bosinney's  Departure  379 

Good  forest  of  Forsytes!  thought  young  Jolyon — 
soundest  timber  of  our  land! 

Concerning  the  cause  of  this  death — his  family  would 
doubtless  reject  with  vigour  the  suspicion  of  suicide, 
which  was  so  compromising!  They  would  take  it  as  an 
accident,  a  stroke  of  fate.  In  their  hearts  they  would 
even  feel  it  an  intervention  of  Providence,  a  retribution — 
had  not  Bosinney  endangered  their  two  most  priceless 
possessions,  the  pocket  and  the  hearth?  And  they 
would  talk  of  "that  unfortunate  accident  of  young 
Bosinney's,"  but  perhaps  they  would  not  talk — silence 
might  be  better! 

As  for  himself,  he  regarded  the  bus-driver's  account 
of  the  accident  as  of  very  little  value.  For  no  one  so 
madly  in  love  committed  suicide  for  want  of  money ;  nor 
was  Bosinney  the  sort  of  fellow  to  set  much  store  by  a 
financial  crisis.  And  so  he,  too,  rejected  this  theory  of 
suicide,  the  dead  man's  face  rose  too  clearly  before  him. 
Gone  in  the  heyday  of  his  summer — and  to  believe  thus 
that  an  accident  had  cut  Bosinney  off  in  the  full 
sweep  of  his  passion  was  more  than  ever  pitiful  to  young 
Jolyon. 

Then  came  a  vision  of  Soames's  home  as  it  now  was 
and  must  be  hereafter.  The  streak  of  lightning  had 
flashed  its  clear  uncanny  gleam  on  bare  bones  with 
grinning  spaces  between,  the  disguising  flesh  was  gone. 

In  the  dining-room  at  Stanhope  Gate  old  Jolyon  was 
sitting  alone  when  his  son  came  in.  He  looked  very 
wan  in  his  great  arm-chair.  And  his  eyes  travelling 
round  the  walls  with  their  pictures  of  still  life,  and  the 
masterpiece,  Dutch  Fishing-boats  at  Sunset,  seemed  as 
though  passing  their  gaze  over  his  life  with  its  hopes, 
its  gains,  its  achievements. 

"Ah,  Jo!"  he  said,  "is  that  you?  I've  told  poor 
little  June.  But  that's  not  all  of  it.  Are  you  going  to 


380  The  Man  of  Property 

Soames's?  She's  brought  it  on  herself,  I  suppose;  but 
somehow  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  her,  shut  up  there — and 
all  alone."  And  holding  up  his  thin,  veined  hand,  he 
clenched  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
IRENE'S  RETURN 

AFTER  leaving  James  and  old  Jolyon  in  the  mortuary 
of  the  hospital,  Soames  hurried  aimlessly  along 
the  streets. 

The  tragic  event  of  Bosinney's  death  altered  the  com- 
plexion of  everything.  There  was  no  longer  the  same 
feeling  that  to  lose  a  minute  would  be  fatal,  nor  would  he 
now  risk  communicating  the  fact  of  his  wife's  flight  to 
any  one  till  the  inquest  was  over. 

That  morning  he  had  risen  early,  before  the  postman 
came,  had  taken  the  first-post  letters  from  the  box  him- 
self, and,  though  there  had  been  none  from  Irene,  he  had 
made  an  opportunity  of  telling  Bilson  that  her  mistress 
was  at  the  sea;  he  would  probably,  he  said,  be  going 
down  himself  from  Saturday  to  Monday.  This  had 
given  him  time  to  breathe,  time  to  leave  no  stone 
unturned  to  find  her. 

But  now,  cut  off  from  taking  steps  by  Bossiney's 
death — that  strange  death,  to  think  of  which  was  like 
putting  a  hot  iron  to  his  heart,  like  lifting  a  great  weight 
from  it, — he  did  not  know  how  to  pass  his  day ;  and  he 
wandered  here  and  there  through  the  streets,  looking 
at  every  face  he  met,  devoured  by  a  hundred  anxieties. 

And  as  he  wandered  he  thought  of  him  who  had 
finished  his  wandering,  his  prowling,  and  would  never 
haunt  his  house  again. 

Already  in  the  afternoon  he  passed  posters  announcing 

381 


382  The  Man  of  Property 

the  identity  of  the  dead  man,  and  bought  the  papers  to 
see  what  they  said.  He  would  stop  their  mouths  if  he 
could,  and  he  went  into  the  City,  and  was  closeted  with 
Boulter  for  a  long  time. 

On  his  way  home,  passing  the  steps  of  Jobson's  about 
half -past  four,  he  met  George  Forsyte,  who  held  out  an 
evening  paper  to  Soames,  saying: 

"Here!  Have  you  seen  this  about  the  poor 
Buccaneer?" 

Soames  answered  stonily:  "Yes." 

George  stared  at  him.  He  had  never  liked  Soames ;  he 
now  held  him  responsible  for  Bosinney  's  death.  Soames 
had  done  for  him — done  for  him  by  that  act  of  property 
that  had  sent  the  Buccaneer  to  run  amok  that  fatal 
afternoon. 

"The  poor  fellow,"  he  was  thinking,  "was  so  cracked 
with  jealousy,  so  cracked  for  his  vengeance,  that  he  heard 
nothing  of  the  omnibus  in  that  infernal  fog." 

Soames  had  done  for  him!  And  this  judgment  was  in 
George's  eyes. 

"They  talk  of  suicide  here,"  he  said  at  last.  "That 
cat  won't  jump." 

Soames  shook  his  head.     "An  accident, "  he  muttered. 

Clenching  his  fist  on  the  paper,  George  crammed  it 
into  his  pocket.  He  could  not  resist  a  parting  shot. 

"H'mm!  All  flourishing  at  home?  Any  little 
Soameses  yet?" 

With  a  face  as  white  as  the  steps  of  Jobson's,  and  a 
lip  raised  as  if  snarling,  Soames  brushed  past  him  and 
was  gone. 

On  reaching  home,  and  entering  the  little  lighted  hall 
with  his  latch-key,  the  first  thing  that  caught  his  eye  was 
his  wife's  gold-mounted  umbrella  lying  on  the  rug  chest. 
Flinging  off  his  fur  coat,  he  hurried  to  the  drawing-room. 

The  curtains  were  drawn  for  the  night,  a  bright  fixe 


Irene's  Return  383 

of  cedar-logs  burned  in  the  grate,  and  by  its  light  he 
saw  Irene  sitting  in  her  usual  corner  on  the  sofa.  He 
shut  the  door  softly,  and  went  towards  her.  She  did  not 
move,  and  did  not  seem  to  see  him. 

"So  you  've  come  back?"  he  said.  "Why  are  you 
sitting  here  in  the  dark?" 

Then  he  caught  sight  of  her  face,  so  white  and  mo- 
tionless that  it  seemed  as  though  the  blood  must  have 
stopped  flowing  in  her  veins;  and  her  eyes,  that  looked 
enormous,  like  the  great,  wide,  startled  brown  eyes  of 
an  owl. 

Huddled  in  her  grey  fur  against  the  sofa  cushions,  she 
had  a  strange  resemblance  to  a  captive  owl,  bunched  in 
its  soft  feathers  against  the  wires  of  a  cage.  The  supple 
erectness  of  her  figure  was  gone,  as  though  she  had  been 
broken  by  cruel  exercise ;  as  though  there  were  no  longer 
any  reason  for  being  beautiful,  and  supple,  and  erect. 

"So  you  Ve  come  back,"  he  repeated. 

She  never  looked  up,  and  never  spoke,  the  firelight 
playing  over  her  motionless  figure. 

Suddenly  she  tried  to  rise,  but  he  prevented  her;  it 
was  then  that  he  understood. 

She  had  come  back  like  an  animal  wounded  to  death, 
not  knowing  where  to  turn,  not  knowing  what  she  was 
doing.  The  sight  of  her  figure,  huddled  in  the  fur,  was 
enough. 

He  knew  then  for  certain  that  Bosinney  had  been  her 
lover;  knew  that  she  had  seen  the  report  of  his  death — 
perhaps,  like  himself,  had  bought  a  paper  at  the  draughty 
corner  of  a  street,  and  read  it. 

She  had  come  back  then  of  her  own  accord,  to  the  cage 
she  had  pined  to  be  free  of-^-and  taking  in  all  the  tre- 
mendous significance  of  this,  he  longed  to  cry:  "Take 
your  hated  body,  that  I  love,  out  of  my  house!  Take 
away  that  pitiful,  white  face,  so  cruel  and  soft — before 


384  The  Man  of  Property 

I  crush  it.  Get  out  of  my  sight;  never  let  me  see  you 
again!'* 

And,  at  those  unspoken  words,  he  seemed  to  see  her 
rise  and  move  away,  like  a  woman  in  a  terrible  dream, 
from  which  she  was  fighting  to  awake — rise  and  go  out 
into  the  dark  and  cold,  without  a  thought  of  him,  without 
so  much  as  the  knowledge  of  his  presence. 

Then  he  cried,  contradicting  what  he  had  not  yet 
spoken,  "No;  stay  there!"  And  turning  away  from 
her,  he  sat  down  in  his  accustomed  chair  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hearth. 

They  sat  in  silence. 

And  Soames  thought:  "Why  is  all  this?  Why  should 
I  suffer  so  ?  What  have  I  done  ?  It  is  not  my  fault ! " 

Again  he  looked  at  her,  huddled  like  a  bird  that  is 
shot  and  dying,  whose  poor  breast  you  see  panting  as 
the  air  is  taken  from  it,  whose  poor  eyes  look  at  you  who 
have  shot  it,  with  a  slow,  soft,  unseeing  look,  taking 
farewell  of  all  that  is  good — of  the  sun,  and  the  air,  and 
its  mate. 

So  they  sat,  by  the  firelight,  in  the  silence,  one  on 
each  side  of  the  hearth. 

And  the  fume  of  the  burning  cedar  logs,  that  he  loved 
so  well,  seemed  to  grip  Soames  by  the  throat  till  he 
could  bear  it  no  longer.  And  going  out  into  the  hall  he 
flung  the  door  wide,  to  gulp  down  the  cold  air  that  came 
in ;  then  without  hat  or  overcoat  went  out  into  the  Square. 

Along  the  garden  rails  a  half-starved  cat  came  rubbing 
her  way  towards  him,  and  Soames  thought:  "Suffering! 
when  will  it  cease,  my  suffering? " 

At  a  front  door  across  the  way  was  a  man  of  his 
acquaintance  named  Rutter,  scraping  his  boots,  with  an 
air  of  "I  am  master  here. "  And  Soames  walked  on. 

From  far  in  the  clear  air  the  bells  of  the  church  where 
he  and  Irene  had  been  married  were  pealing  in ' '  practice  " 


Irene's  Return  385 

for  the  advent  of  Christ,  the  chimes  ringing  out  above 
the  sound  of  traffic.  He  felt  a  craving  for  strong  drink, 
to  lull  him  to  indifference,  or  rouse  him  to  fury.  If  only 
he  could  burst  out  of  himself,  out  of  this  web  that  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  around  him.  If  only  he 
could  surrender  to  the  thought:  "Divorce  her — turn  her 
out!  She  has  forgotten  you.  Forget  her!" 

If  only  he  could  surrender  to  the  thought:  "Let  her 
go — she  has  suffered  enough!" 

If  only  he  could  surrender  to  the  desire:  "Make  a  slave 
of  her — she  is  in  your  power  ! " 

If  only  he  could  surrender  to  the  sudden  vision: 
' '  What  does  it  all  matter  ! ' '  Forget  himself  for  a  minute , 
forget  that  it  mattered  what  he  did,  forget  that  whatever 
he  did  he  must  sacrifice  something. 

If  only  he  could  act  on  an  impulse! 

He  could  forget  nothing;  surrender  to  no  thought, 
vision,  or  desire;  it  was  all  too  serious;  too  close  about 
him,  an  unbreakable  cage. 

On  the  far  side  of  the  Square  newspaper  boys  were 
calling  their  evening  wares,  and  the  ghoulish  cries 
mingled  and  jangled  with  the  sound  of  those  church 
bells. 

Soames  covered  his  ears.  The  thought  flashed  across 
him  that  but  for  a  chance,  he  himself,  and  not  Bosinney, 
might  be  lying  dead,  and  she,  instead  of  crouching  there 
like  a  shot  bird  with  those  dying  eyes 

Something  soft  touched  his  legs,  the  cat  was  rubbing 
herself  against  them.  And  a  sob  that  shook  him  from 
head  to  foot  burst  from  Soames 's  chest.  Then  all  was 
still  again  in  the  dark,  where  the  houses  seemed  to  stare 
at  him,  each  with  a  master  and  mistress  of  its  own,  and  a 
secret  story  of  happiness  or  sorrow. 

And  suddenly  he  saw  that  his  own  door  was  open,  and 
black  against  the  light  from  the  hall  a  man  standing  with 
25 


386  The  Man  of  Property 

his  back  turned.  Something  slid,  too,  in  his  breast,  and 
he  stole  up  close  behind. 

He  could  see  his  own  fur  coat  flung  across  the  carved 
oak  chair;  the  Persian  rugs,  the  silver  bowls,  the  rows  of 
porcelain  plates  arranged  along  the  walls,  and  this 
unknown  man  who  was  standing  there. 

And  sharply  he  asked:  "What  is  it  you  want,  sir? " 

The  visitor  turned.     It  was  young  Jolyon. 

"The  door  was  open,"  he  said.  "Might  I  see  your 
wife  for  a  minute,  I  have  a  message  for  her  ? " 

Soames  gave  him  a  strange,  sidelong  stare. 

"My  wife  can  see  no  one, "  he  muttered  doggedly. 

Young  Jolyon  answered  gently:  "I  shouldn't  keep  her 
a  minute." 

Soames  brushed  by  him  and  barred  the  way. 

"She  can  see  no  one, "  he  said  again. 

Young  Jolyon's  glance  shot  past  him  into  the  hall,  and 
Soames  turned.  There  in  the  drawing-room  doorway 
stood  Irene ;  her  eyes  were  wild  and  eager,  her  lips  were 
parted,  her  hands  outstretched.  In  the  sight  of  both 
men  that  light  vanished  from  her  face ;  her  hands  dropped 
to  her  sides;  she  stood  like  stone. 

Soames  spun  round  and  met  his  visitor's  eyes,  and  at 
the  look  he  saw  in  them  a  sound  like  a  snarl  escaped  him. 
He  drew  his  lips  back  in  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 

"This  is  my  house,"  he  said;  "I  manage  my  own 
affairs.  I  've  told  you  once — I  tell  you  again;  we  are  not 
at  home. " 

And  in  young  Jolyon's  face  he  slammed  the  door. 


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A  vivid  story  of  prehistoric  times,  when  the 
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conflict,  of  constant  peril  and  unceasing  vigi- 
lance, is  introduced  a  love  affair  between  a 
savage  man  and  a  savage  woman  that  pre- 
sents a  blending  of  tenderness  and  savagery 
typical  of  an  age  when  love  and  hate  were 
more  deeply  rooted  passions  than  they  are 
to-day. 

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By  ISRAEL  QUERIDO 

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recalls  both  the  work  of  Balzac  and  of  Zola,  the 
authoritative  critical  journals  of  Europe  have  spoken 
with  one  voice. 

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critical  judgment  of  Europe.  Let  us  hasten  then  to 
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true  sympathetic  method  of  the  idealist.  In  imagina- 
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faculty  everywhere  evinced,  in  its  compelling  dra- 
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passions  and  sentiments,  alike  by  its  hate,  raillery, 
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melancholy,  Menschenwee  has  been  hailed  as  a  work 
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the  world  over. 

Querido,  the  author  of  the  novel,  is  a  native  of 
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Fraternity 

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The  Island  Pharisees 

Revised  Edition.     Entirely  Rewritten. 

"  It  is  a  masterly  work,  strong,  vivid,  observant,  and  stim- 
ulating. ...  A  story  so  vivid  in  its  intensity  that  it  seems  to 
shine  out  above  anything  else  that  is  being  produced  in  con- 
temporary fiction." — London  Daily  Mail. 

The  Man  of  Property 

"  One  of  the  few  volumes  among  recent  works  of  fiction  to 
which  one  thinks  seriously  of  turning  a  second  time — a  book  in 
which  an  intelligent  man  could  browse  with  satisfaction,  even  with 
profit." — The  Anthenceum. 

Each  Crown  8vo. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

New  York  London 


YB  60513 


